The Dark

Once when I was four, I always closed the closet door. Once when I was five, I regretted being alive. I just wanted to die. Because at primal age, the mind can not gauge the dark, nor probe the night, only wish for light, yes, wish for day, let it come, and so here I pray. I am thirteen. Now monsters no longer sneak quietly in the dark, rather, they come in packs, go in tact, preying on the defenseless, and dining on the weak and sweet. O, how I hate them! And hate leads to anger, anger leads to fear, and fear leads back to the dark; a witless circle of mistrust and shame. O, how lame. Yet, this is the game. Here the story of my life stalls and squanders at twenty-one, the days are long, and night's almost done: but now when I ask for the sun . . . it comes.