I wish I was still afraid of the dark.

that I didn’t know what rests in swirling cloaks of black,

that I didn’t remember where the hard hip of the kitchen counter was,

or the swinging dress in the doorway.

I wish it was a ghost again.

I wish I hadn’t named everything in the dark,

hadn’t constricted potential into language,

had taken all of the demons out of my bedroom

before I even played with them—
 

hadn’t had tea at their everchanging tables,

hadn’t let the darkness swallow me like water,

until I was formless, myself—

something some child somewhere

is still afraid of, waiting desperately

to turn on the light.