i don’t call them shadows anymore.
shadows are harmless.
these things are something else—
the negative of a photograph,
burned onto the wall long after the subject walked away.
they aren’t lurking.
they’re waiting.
that’s worse.
lurking is what cats do.
waiting is what gods do.
last night i saw one lean against my dresser,
head bent like it was reading my diary.
its fingers made of moth wings,
t...