Its face is monstorous. We all notice it. We see it as it stares back, deformed, slobbering. Yet somehow we manage to speak of it as if it isn’t there.
It’s suffocating in its prescence, so we whisper our sentences petrified it will hear. We cloak our meanings in euphemisms not to rouse the invisible tentacles among us.
We dog whistle our itches and curse at the wall, the roof. We lament at the dirty floor, the stingy window. Anything but the elephant in the room. The putrid elephant.
Our tissues glued to its fangs we blame eachother for our wounds. And the wall and the roof, the floor, the window. Meek animals living in subservience to an ugly creature.
A hideous animal blind to its deformity itching to punish those who refer to it in anything but the most graceful terms of beauty. An insecure slobbering dofat that snuffs out all who don’t wear a deferential mien.
It dresses and licks us clean when the visitors come round. It mumbles that it treats us good when we should be in a position to treat it. It lectures us how to be good, when we were the ones entitled to.
It mauled 6 of our best yesterday. Maimed them as it did many before them. In the dead of night. Crept towards them while we all slept. And sleep we all have. An eternal sleep it seems.