The Man In the Corner of My Eye
Musings on sleep paralysis and manifestations of anxiety.
There is a man in the corner of my eye.
He is never there when I turn my head.
He stands above me when I sleep and is gone when I open my eyes.
I can hear him now and when I listen he will be gone.
I have never seen his face but he is watching
Watching
Watching
Watching.
There is a man just beneath my breastbone
Knocking to get out
Pushing harder and harder until I burst or vomit or scream.
He is under the lid of my eye
Peeling my skin back and exposing the tissue beneath.
There is a man clawing at my throat
Inhibiting my words, choking me from the inside out.
He is the man in the dark
The man in the corner
The man in the shadows.
He is watching me write.
He isn’t a ghost and he isn’t a demon.
He is just a man in the corner of my eye.
Maybe one day I will turn around and see him standing tall behind me
No longer ducking behind corners when I turn around
Or hiding in shadows.
Maybe one day I won’t turn around as he creeps up behind me.
Maybe he will tap me on the shoulder.
Maybe we’ll have lunch together.
About the Creator
Alexandra Authement
Welcome! I've been writing as a hobby all my life and am interested in sharing my work with a wider audience. Here you'll find poetry, fiction, and short memoirs about my experience growing up in fundamentalist Christianity.
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More stories from Alexandra Authement and writers in Poets and other communities.
Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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