My Boogie Man

My boogie man was never under my bed.

It’s slithering in the deepest recesses of my soul.

I can feel it searching,

almost as if it were a spider-web of tentacles

feeling for chips or cracks

in the wall of the cell that it is kept in.

When it is awake,

it is relentless in its never ending search.

It’s digging

erodes away the safe place I put it in.

Every chance it gets it tries to gain control.

The web of tentacles take hold slowly

so as not to be detected.

I only notice it’s there when it uses my eyes,

or it uses my dreams to play out its fantasies.

I catch myself looking at woman

as a predator looks at its prey.

I actually feel myself starting to salivate

and this is usually how I find out its awake again.

I feel my consciousness come back into focus

as I take back control.

But that doesn’t matter,

it’s awake again.

None of us are safe.

The double take of the vulnerable looking blond

on the back of the bike

is like the alcoholics first sip.

The first step in a series

that lead to duct-tape-muffled-screams

and a dirty-tear-streaked face

Douglas c. Face