Bad Laura

Oh God. Please. Not this day.

The mossy ceiling fan slows,
and blows the dark down the hall to my room.
And I know he is coming again.

I’ve named him Bob, you know.
His dark is charmed.
Bestial.
Always, I cannot move,
or even see him through the soot.

And he climbs upon me and pants.
With an insane laugh,
he eats at me.
Handles me hard.
Tells me I am bad.
Bad bad girl.
Bad Laura.

And he says
until next time.
And he knows I will not tell.
Because then they will all know.

I am dirty, so dirty,
and can’t wash it off.

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