• I have an imaginary friend.
    She doesn't speak much, though.
    She usually just sits on the edge of my bed,
    Staring into me with her dark orbs.
    I could never beat her in a staring game.

    I have an imaginary friend.
    She wears old style clothes,
    And her skin is so thin and fragile, that I never touch her.
    What if she broke?
    Who will I call upon when my father beats me,
    Or when my mother passes out on the couch?

    I have an imaginary friend.
    Her long, black hair is suprisingly straight.
    Sometimes, it flutters around her, even though I know
    That now windows were open in my room.
    I thought that was cool.

    I have an imaginary friend.
    She tends to come at night and scare me
    when her eyes suddenly glow red.
    And her grip becomes deadly as she pins me down on my bed,
    me in a half-awake daze,
    and the pit that was her mouth hung unhumanly low as she brought her face
    toward mine.

    I have an imaginary friend.
    She gets angry very often.
    She throws things at me and my family,
    and sometimes screams bloody murder for absolutely no reason.
    She disfigures my dolls,
    and rips the stuffing out of my teddy bears.
    She pokes herself with a needle in the dark in the corner of my room,
    and scratches the still-red rings around her neck.
    She filled my bed with maggots,
    and hung my dog in my bathroom.
    So I heard the dripping of it's blood and it's pitiful whispers while I lay awake.

    I don't think a have an imaginary friend.
    Because one day, she told me that
    She does these things
    Because she wants us to be best friends.

    Forever and ever.