We've rid ourselves of the monsters sleeping under our beds, but wake up screaming out of reach, something familiar. While we're sleeping, breathing, walls creak. We're there in nightmares, among half-thoughts. In cracked mirrors, there lie fragments of bedtime stories and dog-eared photographs. We're unfamiliar now with this place we used to call home. Faces obscured, foreign.
But I know you. At least, I knew you then.
Beds are cold new, and I'm still convinced that there are ghosts in my closet. I know they're in yours.
The scariest part is in what we didn't say.
All these years pa**ed, are we still the same?
This will haunt me. Will it haunt you too, knowing we're part of this new alienation?