Poem: a children’s game of summoning demons
I’m lighting a cigarette.
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary
And spin thrice. That’s how we used to do it. A children’s game of summoning demons from a dark room. The older children would stuff us in the toilet, shut off the lights and slam the door shut behind us. Our screams of horror would be silenced by the reason for their cruelty:
We won’t let you out until you summon her.
And we used to ask, who?
Bloody Mary, of course! Look at yourself in the mirror- don’t turn on the lights, it has to be pitch black. Say her name three times and then spin around three times. And then she’ll appear. Do it!
And we used to ask, why?
Because we won’t let you out!
We used to stand perfectly still, in a line just like an execution. And then, one of us would start.
Bloody Mary
and it would feel like a gunshot
Bloody Mary
run
Bloody Mary
but the door was locked and we were caged inside a place with the task of bringing forth our own ruin
Silence.
Children. Girls. Looking around the dark.
Then suddenly, a hand. Grasping my shirt, Natalie’s hair, Elma’s sleeve. Suddenly our screams of death. Suddenly the earth slipping from beneath my feet.
After, when I awoke. I was told there was no such thing as Bloody Mary. An older girl from the year above had hid in the corner behind the toilet and waited for us to make us think we’d summoned a demon. But there was no demon. Only her.
True or false.
Do demons exist?
True or false.
Do you?
If I don’t look at myself in the mirror from time to time I would think myself standing inside that room.
This is the writings of a madwoman, at times. At times I’m Bloody Mary. At times I’m the monster waiting to be revealed.
But, at times, when the world gets too constricted and scary, I’m still a kid, waiting for someone to open the door. Waiting for the monster of the future to turn out being, just a girl.
I snuff out the cigarette. I turn off the lights in my room.
