Walking towards you is like walking towards the twilight.
Not the warm, star-studded twilight of childhood, but
The twilight of the scary wood in all the archaic fairytales.
The twilight that tucks monsters into the folds of its skirts
And stitches nightmares into the hem of its sky.
Going towards that twilight always seems inevitable
In the books but sometimes I have to wonder
If the characters in those stories choose to
See the shadows, hear the shrieks, and feel the ghostly wind
They simply must be swallowed by the darkness to believe it is real
Because otherwise, it will remain this mysterious place:
Probably dangerous, but maybe
Wonderful, maybe
Tame-able
Maybe Red Riding Hood thought she would be queen of the Twilight
Holder of the keys
Bearer of the secrets
Maybe she knew she might get eaten,
But gambled that she wouldn’t
Maybe I don’t know how to resist your twilight
Maybe I don’t know how to want anything
Other than the danger – high risk, high reward
Maybe I don’t know how to choose the softer twilight
Maybe I just don’t want to