The Succubus

Even as a child,

you never feared the night.

It’s only the birl of

the Earth.

The rats that clawed

the walls? You left them

Camembert, Shiraz

to wash it down.

Cognac for the spiders.

Oysters for

each Geist or

pretzeled snake.

You stood upon your

head in tilt-a-whirls,

watched The Exorcist

at midnight, conjured

Latin lyrics for

Tubular Bells.

I’m not afraid of the

dark. It’s afraid of me.

You likened every

goth to Daisy Mae,

got a tattoo on your

tongue in order to

know how it would taste;

swapping floss for

exacto blades,

laughing that it tickles.

And there will come

a gloom in which I reach

out for your imprint on

the bed, not from living

flesh but from your flailing

silhouette, the kind that

filled the room,

whenever I scratched a

match to see what even

the ogres dread.

Andreas Gripp

March 3, 2026

RF Photo