A man is watching for me.
He’s never not around, not even when I was a baby. But he swears he isn’t family.
My earliest memory; I was maybe only two, maybe three?
He was dressed in a black tuxedo, and his hat shadowed over his face.
“What’s your name?” “Are you family?” “Wanna play with me?” “Why don’t you talk?”
And he got angry with every question.
“Play by yourself.” He shooed at me,
“Don’t talk to me again.” He waved me away,
I keep quiet when my parents are around.
My teachers don’t know a thing.
Sometimes he looks like a ghost, fading in and out of space.
Sometimes he’s uncannily handsome, but I never like when he is.
Sometimes his hands are stained red, or black, and sometimes he wears white gloves.
He changes so much, but I always know it’s him.
Others have people like him too.
People nobody can see or hear,
They’re usually nice to me, but He doesn’t let me talk to them.
Nobody can know what I know.
“It would put you in danger,” He says, “if anyone were to discover how special you are.”
I’ve never known the feeling of being alone.
I have no friends, but he keeps me company.
Even when he isn’t where I can see, I know he can’t be far.
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