The Witching Hour

I’ve always been afraid of the dark.  Maybe because that’s where my fears hide.  In the early hours of the morning, in the pitch black, when I’m trying my hardest to sleep, that’s when my ghosts come out to dance.

My shame, my regrets, every bad decision, every wrong turn.  My darkest moments.  They twist around me like bedsheets during a bad dream.  They ensnare me, threaten to drag me under.  Sometimes I surrender and am pulled into despair and other times I can shut my mind and force them back into the shadows.

But my ghosts are always there, waiting for the next dance.  They exhaust me.  They frighten me.  But they are part of me.  If it weren’t for them, I would not be who I am today, nor where I am today.

Deep within the shadows lays my salvation.  A small flicker of light.  So long as that tiny flame endures, so will I.  I find comfort there.  Warmth and love.  A memory, a tender touch, a giggle.  Redemption maybe.  Relief perhaps.  Something to move toward, definitely.  Something to tether me.  Ground me.  Hold me.

So I continue my dance with the ghosts and hope that the spark catches and fills my world, once again, with light and pushes the shadows to the edges, where they belong.

© Melinda McKeon 20 September 2019

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