There is a tree in this world that knows my name.

It breathes in my nightmares and stalks my sunlight hours. At the centre of my self, that shadow grove with pine-needle ground and the hollow where Beauty lies down to her forever sleep.  

I dreamed a chair of black wood, rattle-scuttling across the shady porch of my mind. Its twisted back was rough and alive, and moss surprised from its lureful seat.

I knew if I sat it in, I’d die. I’d be snapped into its tree mouth and crunched between twiggy fingers, leaves stuffed down my throat.

It’s breathing in my nightmares and stalking my sunlight hours. It doesn’t have to chase me, it knows I’ll come back.