The Outsider (a poem)

A bed and a bookcase, and a small writing desk.
A doll and a sock, and a bit of a mess.
Through the window, the sunlight is just coming up,
But the nightlight’s still on, illuminating a cup.

The cup is half full, or half empty, or neither.
And the milk in it is old, a disgusting creature.
The clock on the wall watches. It ticks and it tocks.
And at the small, narrow door, there are three quiet knocks.

No one replies. Not a voice shouts, “Come in!”
And the outsider waits, listens closer. No noise from within.
There is not a sound besides the ticking wall clock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Not a bated breath, not a whisper of life.
Not a sigh of contentment, not the chink of a knife.
So they push at the door, but it seems to be jammed.
They’ve their heart in their mouth and their nerves in their hands.

They push even harder, panic rising in their soul.
For locked out of the room, they are out of control.
And they shout and they scream the name of the child
But there’s no sound from within, and their heart’s going wild.

Finally, the door moves and they fall against it hard,
And open it’s thrown with the weight of their guard.
Adrenaline filled, they look to the bed
And stare in horror as they see their own head.

The outsider looks into their own glazed eyes,
And they see their own face that has already died.
And after such a wretched, sorrowful sight,
The outsider leaves. And the outsider smiles.

– By Bethany Morledge.

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