It - Cretin

when one is dead." I swallowed all the pills prescribed, agonizing how to hide

when It knew to look, and

running was doomed since It owned my stride.

I turned my home into a trap;

beneath my bed I slept, and did the opposite of

what I’d do, and lived,

instead, a stranger.

Oh, years did pass, how I grew old, and wisdom made this

true: I knew I’d sold the

good in me for time.

I wonder, would It say the same?

Having spent the bulk of

years spoiling joy with

fear, I wished—almost—It would come at last.

When quite by chance I spied It.

Unaware, It laughed beside a family of its own.

How strange this felt,

to barely recognize me in that way:

so content.