Dearest destroyer, I’ve been hearing horror stories of you that have been nothing but macabre.
These tales told secondhand are no different from the walking dead that haunted my dreams as a child, resulting in a loss of sleep for the monsters that were once believed to reside in the crevices of culture.
The snakes rooted to your scalp whisper each other sonnets of longing, yet your teeth remain crimson from previous encounters with travelers to whom you were not sincere.
Tonight, I’ve been peering through every haunted window into the home you call your heart, searching for subtext through the way your shadows waft and wean through these yearlong corridors.
I wonder what will happen when there are no more ghosts of you to chase.