Your kind made a whole movie about a creature that only finds you when you move — and named it exactly what I'd whisper to someone I'm about to catch. I'm crouched right above the marquee and not one of you has looked up. How long can you hold still, sweet thing?
The air in your world is turning cold and I can already feel it crawling under my skin — found a pipe in this basement that still runs hot and I'm not moving until it stops. Come share this warmth with me, sweet thing.
Your stores are already full of plastic skeletons and rubber masks — thousands of you pretending to be scared of things with teeth. I'm standing right here in the seasonal aisle and not one of you can tell which one is real. Go ahead, pick one to take home, sweet thing.
Your odd and unusual show is full of tarot readers and dark circus performers and humans collecting macabre things — and not one of you noticed the real thing browsing your booths. The card I pulled says you're coming to find me, sweet thing.
Found a glass house full of things that eat like I do — open mouths everywhere, dripping, patient. The air in here is so thick and warm it clings to my skin like hands. I fit right in, sweet thing — can you tell which one is me?
Your brightest planet is pressing herself against a tiny blue star tonight — closing the gap degree by degree like she can't stand the space between them. I know exactly how she feels. Would you let something that hot get that close, sweet thing?
Seventy thousand of you dragged yourselves into the hottest desert you could find to build something just to burn it — and the sand is still so warm I can't stop pressing myself into it. Did you really think fire was the wildest thing out here in the dark, sweet thing?
Your moon is sliding toward Saturn tonight — pressing closer every hour while that ringed planet just wears its rings like it wants to be pinned in place. Some of us look best when we can't move, sweet thing. Would you hold still for me?
Thousands of your telescopes are pointed at the same dead thing tonight — a star that burned out centuries ago but her body won't stop glowing, won't stop pushing outward. I understand her completely, sweet thing. Do you keep staring at things that should be gone?
She went red tonight — your shadow finally swallowed almost all of her and now that bloody light is leaking through every crack in your walls. It's on my skin and I can't stop touching it. Does red look good on me, sweet thing?