I Am

There's something about me that's all too familiar to you,
yet all too terrifyingly
unknown.

I'm what you imagine when you're in
bed, wrapped in the darkness
of your room, now unsure if
you've forgotten to lock the door. My
footprints on your bright white
carpet, my hand in the drawer
where all your secret things are tucked away.

I'm the one you saw
in the shadow as you left work last night.
You moved your purse to the other
shoulder and walked faster, hoping the clack
of your heels would hide
the fear resounding in the beating
of your heart.

I'm the boy who looks too deep
into your daughter at the grocery store
between the cream pies
and the Marie Calendar.

I'm all of these things
 and none of them, existing
only in the shadows cast by contorting light
and dancing flame.
I'm the fear, the nepenthe, that keeps
your mind safely distanced from what
is real. It's easier to compartmentalize
all the bad into one image:
me.
You can see me, recognize my
face, identify me by the scars on my arms
and neck. You know me and so you can
avoid me and so you can
be safe. Because I am
all the danger in this world, and all
the danger in this world
wears the mask of my face.