every inch a massacre

i watch you wind down the dark staircase into the formless black pool, tunneling into me, boring like a screw forced into undrilled wood. there are sobs and there are screams rattling around the walls—a pendulum broke free, it chases you. i am chasing you and i am sitting at the bottom of the winding—i am the maw that swallows you back into myself, i drop you into my world. i drop you into my world as you dropped me into yours—crying, screaming chubby thing, full of your flesh and your bones and your faces. i have stolen you. i am you. i am the thing that i stole when you left the door open and i am the rattling you chased from your home. i thought these chairs were set out for me, these beds made for my resting, these cups made for my thirst, i thought that the world you made was mine because i did not know you made it, i did not know that it was made. i thought that every thing i laid my eyes on was drawn into form by my wanting, sparked from the flint in my eye, i thought it should be this way for everyone. and you saw me bloodied in the living matter of your dream; every inch a massacre.