I know it’s not real.
I know.
My father told me so,
and I believe him.
He always tells the truth.
So I know
that when my father
turns off the light,
and it’s quiet
(at first)
and then I hear the scritch,
scritch,
scritching,
I know
that it’s all in my head.
And I know
that when I call out,
“Stop!
Stop scritch,
scritch,
scritching
underneath my bed!”
and I hear in reply,
no, little poppet
you do not want me
to stop
because if I stop
scritching
then I will begin
chewing
I know
that too
is all in my head.
My head
is clearly not right,
but I do not want it
to be chewed
off my neck.
So I don’t try to stop
the scritching
anymore.
It has been
one hundred and eight days
since I last slept.
And now,
because my nails
have grown
so fine and sharp,
and my teeth
all in my head
all in my head
have become
so long and cruel,
I know that
it is time for me to leave.
It is time for me to go
and find another child’s bed
to scritch
scritch
scritch
underneath.