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I am not the shadow that flees from the light, I am the cold that dwells at the bottom of your cross. Don't look for locks, or escape to the threshold, because I am the pulse of your visceral fear.
I will dwell in the silence that precedes the cry, in the distorted echo of a dry prayer. You dress me at night, you feed me, look at me in the glass of a hazy eye, I am the idea you leave behind.
I'm not behind the door, or under the shading, I'm the dead skin that you're starting to be. When the air thickens and you can't breathe, don't blame the wind, don't try to pray.
I am not a ghost, not an external entity, I am yourself, broken, as I am your own horror.