The Red Thread

In the corner of my bedroom,
Where the moonlight doesn’t reach,
Lives a shadow shaped like nothing,
Yet it whispers like it breathes.

It never moves at daytime,
Never stirs when lights are on—
But the moment darkness settles,
All its quiet rules are gone.

I hear its fingers on the floorboards,
Hear it dragging something deep,
Hear it crawling just a little
Every time I fall asleep.

It knows the rhythm of my breathing,
Knows the twitching of my eyes,
Knows the fragile, tender places
Where my hidden terror lies.

Last night it stood beside me—
I could feel its cold love seep.
It leaned close and softly murmured:
“You’re awake. But soon you’ll sleep.”

I froze beneath the blankets,
Heart a hammer in my chest,
While it hummed a broken lullaby
Like a mother long at rest.

And tonight, it grows impatient,
Something hungry starts to creep—
For I swear I heard it whisper:
“Close your eyes. I’ll make it deep.”