ScribalWriter

“Hey,” Dim whispers against my shoulder, “you’ve forgotten about me.” No I haven’t. He twists around my side, dragging hips and coarse denim jeans.  “Look at me.” I will not. “See me.” I will never. “This is going to get ugly,” he says and I believe him. My imagination is never nice. “Tick tock.”  His eyes are bright, eerie and malicious, and I try not to look.  He moves away to poke at the books on my nightstand, at the broken lamp and empty Kleenex box.  He comes back like he always does.  Trails cutting-cold fingers over my spine, at the back of my neck.  Grips t