There Are Children At The Foot Of My Bed

Last year, when I wrote you my last letter, the beginning of my future poetry, I acknowledged who you really were for the first time.

I didn’t call you by any other name. I let you know that I knew the true nature of your heart, that it was evil, and that it convinced me that darkness was real, that the devil is a real devil and that monsters don’t always know that they’re monsters.

But projection is an amazing thing, after you left and burnt the house down you tried to convince me that it was I who was holding the matches. You told me that I didn’t know who I was