it's the slinky, slimey, saunter
of your dark side
that seems to be just over your shoulder
watching
waiting
angling for that moment
when your anger
rises to choke you
and you startle back knowing that aint you;
it's when your back stiffens
and hairs on your skin
start to dance
and the bumps rise
when you get caught
in the heat of a panic,
the schism of the struggle
makes you feel dirty
and you pray
no one else knows