By A.J. Huffman

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My mind imagines, bleeds
ink for almost-profit in shades
of depravity most could not even begin
to conceive.  I sleep
with scissors beneath my pillow
for sanity, sit with my back against walls,
always keep doors in view.  I walk
my dogs, carry a Maglite
that has not worked in years
as a weapon, ready to strike at shadows.
I am a product of my own darkness.
The boogiemen whispering from closets
and corners wear nametags I gave them,
wait for dialogues I have yet to write.

A.J. Huffman