Descension

I am scared of stairs.
They frighten me.

I grip onto the railing tight
and slowly walk down,
careful to keep my eyes
right where my feet are.

I clap my hand over my mouth.

The vision of me, teeth retracting into the gums,
a maroon splat against the ground.

I trip and stumble down.
The viscera cakes the steps.
I trip and fall.
My neck hits the step,
and I lay there still.
My incisors dig deep cavities into my lip.
My canines maul gashes into my mouth.
My molars shattered by the impact.

My limbs contorted out of place.
In an unrealistically grotesque visage.

I steady my hand over my mouth.

Part of me is convinced
these visions are a curse from the gods.
To see all of the infinite scenarios
where I meet a horrible end.

I hate the stairs.
They scare me.