I don’t believe that there are aliens. I believe there are really different people. – Orson Scott Card
Each time I kiss her,
I want to tell her everything…
about the aliens who tried to
abduct me, the secret door in
the attic which imprisons them —
little behemoths with orange skin,
glowing yellow eyes and myriad horns,
which send waves of disturbing
thoughts into our minds, until they
carry us with them to their realm,
in spirit and flesh, or spirit alone,
I don’t know. I know she’ll
have one of two reactions
to my confession —
she’ll either want nothing to do
with me, which will destroy my
equanimity and toss me in
whirlwinds of pandemonium,
releasing those monsters
and giving them victory,
or she’ll become as obsessed as I
was with them,
spending nights tossing and
turning, wanting to know more,
flitting between the rapture of esoteric
knowledge and the despondency of learning
too much, until she’ll open the door,
unleash what’s in the pandora’s box
and destroy us all.
I don’t mean to gasconade,
but I’ve considered all the possibilities
like a scrupulous, superstitious priest
going about his ecclesiastical duty,
and I often wish I could carve
the abominations with a chainsaw,
or fatality them by ripping off their
eyes and horns,
or drop them in a pool of acid,
or place them in a brazen bull until
they roast to death, and relish their screams.
I could tell her that aliens don’t fall
from the sky like little grey blobs,
but are with us and within us,
unveiling unthinkable horrors outside
perception, and perhaps she’ll agree,
but I depend on her not changing,
I need status quo, and though I might be
hollow because I refuse to tackle
what needs warring with,
I’d rather she hold the key to
the secret door without knowing it,
keeping the aliens at bay,
engendering a simulacrum of peace,
or a semblance of blue,
or a gaudy facade of togetherness,
rather than violently altering make-believe
with shades of crimson and drops of blood.
Photo by Daniel Olah on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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