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It comes in at night

Insinuates itself into the room smoke-like

Seeping through cracks and gaps

When I notice its presence

It’s already too late

And the fumes turn into

The acrid smell of sweat

As it rests heavy on top of me

Spreads inside me covering my mouth 

Turning my pleas into muffled whimpers.

My neck creaks from the strong headlock

And my teeth grind from

The memory of its salacious whispers

Its menacing murmurs

Threats of car accidents

And unrecognisable bodies

Pulled out of carbonised tin cans

Unfortunate falls and incurable diseases

Phone calls announcing the unannouncable

Wrong turns into dark roads.

I try to wrestle it away from the children 

And cling at its ethereal dress

Claw at its immateriality 

As it slowly climbs up the stairs

Flashing that bright blade 

Before it slits little throats

Leaving me choosing

Impossibly small coffins

Over and over again

As dawn rises and 

The shadows of my insanity 

Shorten and slowly disappear.

THE END


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The Fabric of Tombstones by BF Jones
The Fabric of Tombstones by BF Jones

B. F. Jones is French and has been living in the UK since 2002.

She has flash fiction and poetry published in various online UK and US literary magazines: The Cabinet of HeedDaily DrunkRejection LitSpelkStorgyVersificationEllipsis and Idle Ink.

Twitter handle: @Fijo_Frenchie


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