Midwestern night.
There’s something out in the fields,
Something banging on the roof.
Fresh vomit in the toilet.
The sink is running, so you can’t
Hear your own heavy breathing.
Dad snores away in bed
Oblivious to the monster at the window.
The memory of nights like these
Grow archaic to him now.
But when you pass through the kitchen
On your way back to your room
Those eyes blare just as real as yours do.
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