To My Beloved Horror Films

Alexa Kingman

Do I talk about you too much?
Do I make you the center of my tongue,
let your screams echo through my ribs? 
I can still hear my mother whisper,
Quick, cover her eyes,
but I peeked through the cracks of her fingers,
the glow of the screen
slashing my face open with light.

Now I sit in the dark by choice,
ticket in hand,
a blanket draped over my body–
sometimes the Killer Klowns from Outer Space,
sometimes Terrifier,
sometimes the pumpkin one.

The theatre breathes like a lung,
the smell of buttered popcorn 
clogging my throat. 
I hate buttered popcorn.

I eat it anyway. I can’t 
miss a moment of you. 

On screen, Freddy’s glove scrapes a wall,
blood sings against tile,
I feel your pulse in mine.
Jeepers Creepers grins
like he knows my secrets.

You taught me not to flinch,
not to look away,
to find beauty in the wound.

---