He came full pizzicato,
legs tapping like violin strings,
thinking himself some demon thing—
a silk-threaded symphony
of malice and fang.
He monologued,
dripping venom from mandibles
like it was chic.
Wove a web across my threshold
as if I hadn’t already salted the earth
with the corpses of better threats.
He thought he was terror incarnate.
That he’d haunt the corner of my room
and the crevice of my spine.
The intruder calling me calculated
and cold.
I met him at the baseboard,
gently,
with a folded piece of CVS receipt
and a whisper that said,
“You picked the wrong shrine.”
The crunch was deeply satisfying.
His funeral brief.
Closed casket.
No mourners.
Just me—
flushing his legacy with a smirk
About the Creator
Ellie Hoovs
Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.
My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb
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