surreal poetry
Surrealist poetry embodies the essence of poetry itself, drawing upon shocking imagery and lyrical incongruities to comment on the inner-workings of the mind.
Somewhere Behind Me
The streetlight flickers. Once. Twice. Then settles into a weak yellow hum. I walk down the center of the road. Away from the hedges. Away from the dark gaps between houses. Away from the places where something could stand without being seen. A rustle. Sharp. Dry. From the bush to my left. I stop. My pulse slams against my ribs. I stare into the leaves. Nothing. Just branches. Just darkness. Just my imagination. I tell myself that twice before I start moving again. Thenā Click. A footstep on pavement. Behind me. I stop. The sound stops. I listen. The silence listens back. I start walking. Slowly. Click. Behind me. Click. Closer. Click. Matching my rhythm. Not chasing. Following. The difference matters. I don't know why. But it does. I keep my eyes forward. My neck feels locked in place. Like some buried instinct has grabbed the back of my skull and is whispering: Don't. The streetlight ahead stretches my shadow across the pavement. Long. Thin. Wrong. I watch it move. Then I see another one. Not beside mine. Not behind it. Beneath it. A second shape folded into the first. Too long. Too narrow. Moving when it shouldn't. I blink. It's gone. A whistle cuts through the dark. Low. Casual. Close enough that I feel it more than hear it. The hairs on my arms stand up. I start walking faster. The footsteps do too. The distance between us shrinks. I can feel it. The way you can feel someone standing behind you in an elevator. The way you can feel eyes on the back of your neck. The way you can feel danger before you understand it. I turn sharply into an alley. Bad choice. The darkness changes there. The shadows stretch in impossible directions. The walls seem taller. Closer. Leaning inward. Listening. I can hear my breathing now. Short. Uneven. Panicked. And beneath itā Click. Click. Click. Closer. Not running. Never running. Something about that terrifies me more. As if whatever is behind me already knows it doesn't have to hurry. I run. Shoes hammering pavement. Heart threatening to burst through my chest. The footsteps remain steady. Patient. Certain. Gaining. Always gaining. Then I hear something else. My name. Right behind me. Spoken softly. The way someone speaks to a person they've been waiting for. The way someone speaks to a person they've never stopped watching. I almost turn around. Almost. But some part of me understands something the rest of me doesn't. If I turn aroundā This becomes real. So I keep running. And somewhere behind meā I can feel it smiling
By Tifani Power 3 months ago in Poets
