2am.

The clock on the night stand mocks me. It's face angled to the empty space in my bed, the glowing green screams 'not again' I reach for a note pad. 2am
I scribble the words with such distain, my pencil melts to my hand.
What is insomnia?
If not an old friend-
who is the only person that still checks up on me

What is the Moon's role in this blank slate that is darkness and grief,
too high to provide enough light,
As my flash light scans the street.
What is the gun on my hip,
the chip on my shoulder,
What are the flash backs in my head
A car engine roaring.

All alone, in the woods
I check each closet twice,
The shower, the basement.
Looking for a man in love with a knife.

There is a tree branch tapping threats on my window.
Oh, a familiar sound.
my guts fluttering, and my mind in defense mode.
I hit the ground.

2am is a time for wars to be waged.
2am is a time, for violent crimes again.
2am is a time for flight, or fright.
2am is a time to be Leary of a man, who is in love with a knife