The Shadow.

Sometimes I forget about the shadow that stands outside the door.

This week, it let itself in without me noticing. I kept going about my business, wondering why it was difficult to move around, until I tried to walk over to my love. The shadow gripped my wrist tightly. I pulled, but it hurt. I didn't want to turn around to face it. "Don't go; it'll just hurt more," it whispered gently, with a tone of wisdom. I contemplated the words, not sure if they were my own. I moved toward the door once more. "If you go to him, he'll hurt you. He'll trap you. He'll leave you. The only one who will never leave you is me." I felt weak from struggling. I wanted to sit back down. Maybe it was right.

The shadow cast itself across my windows, greying the skies. Angular shapes darkened the faces of others around me.. I looked to my gentle friends, but the shadows under their eyebrows, the corners of their lips, sat heavily with sharp disapproval, with deceit. "They don't care about you," the grip around my wrist tightened. The weight was heavier; my weariness growing over me.

I remembered then, of this feeling, of this grip, of this darkness, so I turned around and faced it, that shadow. And it tried to hide, but I already knew it was there. It's a cunning thing, that shadow. I will move my furniture, find where it's hiding, and then sweep it back out the door. It'll wait again, I'm sure. It may even come back in, but I'll know, and I'll clean my house once more.