The Horrors are Just Stories: A Poem


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Without a flashlight, I toed my way
barefoot across the salamander skin of the leaves
in the dead of night in the woods.
Fingering the toad scratches of the bark as the canopy
suffocated my eyes
and the mossy fur of the air
tickled my Id, I thought on the beasts of the full moon––

Dracula, the mummy, and the bad man
with the bolts in his neck (I was not ready
to wear the bride’s lightning scalp)––

only to find that the tattered-flannel werewolf
was only you,
you, as I’d always known you,
a mutt of fluff, tail wagging, unghostly,
just the other side of the clearing.
I unfolded myself and you lept into my arms
as if you didn’t even know the monster you were.

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