My secret

It feels wrong, but at the same time, it feels right. It makes me feel entirely at ease...at home, you could say. I can’t stop doing it. It’s a compulsion, really. It’s always so close; I want to do it so badly; I can’t help it. I’m not hurting anyone, so why should I stop? Honestly, it’s completely irrational for me to even feel guilty about this, I’m simply clouded by some delusional paranoia when in reality I’m only responding to my natural inclination, as anyone would. Come to think of it, I bet no one would even care if they knew about it. They’d understand. 

—

I help out a lot, I really do. I take care of my family. At least as much as I can without them noticing me. I’ve gotten very shy. It’s strange. It seems as though it might be a new aspect of my character, although for some reason I can’t quite remember how my behavior once was, but I digress. I do my little chores each day (pruning and watering the plants in the garden, pulling up weeds, gathering debris from the pool water, and the like). Afterward I spend a little bit of time relaxing. I love to swim in the pool. I do that every day. Sometimes I feel as though I could stay there forever, but inevitably, I get bored. I can pass the hours laying out under the shade of the plants’ massive leaves, and exploring the backyard, looking for new critters to observe and say “hi” to, but that all too grows tiresome. 

When the sun is up, the house usually stands empty. At sunrise the family goes off to their respective schools and jobs only to briefly return at midday before departing again.

My metaphorical heart beats just a little faster as the sun begins to set. This is when the family returns. Sometimes they even come into the backyard to roll up their pant legs and dip their feet in the pool, or to bring a vegetable or two inside the house. Oh, how much joy that brings me; having the ones I love so close to me; hearing their voices, seeing their faces. I know how much they love me, too. If I had one wish, it would be to always be with them. 

As the moon becomes brighter and brighter, the 

final light in the house is turned off. This is when it calls to me. That house. Those people. I belong in there with them, but I can never go in (again?). That much I know for certain. What I can do is get close. Each night, after the house becomes dark, I make my way up to it. I rest my paws up against the tan bricks, and I look through the windows. 

It feels as though I can’t stop looking; I can’t pry my paws from the wall, but at some point I do. I plop back on all fours only to make my way to the next window and stand myself up again. They’re so peaceful when they sleep. They’re safe; I know that they’re safe because I can see them. I love them, and they love me. 

— 

You think that I’m gone

But I had never left you 

I’m watching you sleep