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It skulks across the room
and rubs its muzzle up against me,
weaving through my legs
and mewling for its supper.
I have nothing left to feed it:
it has eaten all the joy stocked in the pantry
and grown fat on my willpower.
Every skittering hope I’ve dared to keep
has met its end between the shadow’s forepaws
or its teeth.
I don’t know which is worse.

Its tail flicks and swishes as its glare
is fixed on me.
I could open the door, and it would stalk outside
and melt into the night—
but then I’d be alone.
At least when I’m asleep
the shadow slinks into my room
and curls up on my chest.
It almost keeps me warm.

And would it be so bad, I ask myself,
to let it sink its teeth into my throat
and tear me open?
Would it be so bad
to struggle and give in and be devoured?
Would it be so bad to sate the hunger
with my life, and let it gnaw my bones?

But then it would be over.

I empty my thoughts
into the shadow’s dish. It feasts—
and, satisfied, stretches its paws,
and settles on my nerves to fall asleep.