At unspeakable hours is when they like to come—
Never in the daylight for fear of being discovered
By those who are not allowed to know.
They chose me, and it’s a curse and a blessing.
The first night they arrived, it was ordinary and bright.
The moon shone a yellowish hue through my open window,
And the cold, damp air blew the tapestry beside my bed.
I stared at the odd geometrical shapes that made up the linen.
One looked like an eye, and it was looking at me.
When a hand reached through my window, I was panicked,
But the panic was soon overshadowed by shock.
They were massive; their gray/ blue skin stretched thinly across their frames.
I couldn’t speak, and the hairs on my body were the only parts of me that could move.
They stood up, erect, but my body flattened into the bed.
And soon I was floating out the window, lifted by energy,
They never said a word to me, and neither I to them,
But they showed me through their homes which were familiar yet excessively large.
My heartrate was steady, normal, and unthreatened,
As they let me feel their leather-like skin, and afterwards, one ran a finger
Along the smooth skin of my forearm. I wanted to thank them for their generosity
In revealing their existence, even a fragment of their way of life to me,
But soon I was deposited back into my bed, my eyes on the eye in my tapestry.
Now, I leave my bedroom window open on days when I am feeling curious.
And at night, I find myself praying for those things
That they will receive salvation just as I aim to achieve.
And sometimes I even pray that they’ll visit me,
So that I can feel their spirits one more time and glimpse into the less-known.
Sometimes my prayers are answered, and the hand comes summoning at my window.
But they work on a time of their own, unamused with my silly curiosity,
Yet kind enough to share their nature with me whenever they wish it.
Hollywood says they erase your memory: the parts they don’t want you to recall.
But for some, they want you to know that they are there
And that there’s more than mankind. Humans don’t own the universe.
So, they let me keep my memory, maybe just a portion of it.
But I remember enough to remember the feeling of these intelligent beings
As interested in me as I them, and unapologetic in their staring
With their giant, yellow, focused eyes.
And though the public buys up movie tickets with subtitles advertising “Aliens!”
The category listed reads “science fiction,” and the fictionality is not questioned.
And so, when the topic of the supernatural is brought up
By humans who believe they know everything,
I don’t open my mouth to share in their suppositions
As there’s nothing more natural to me than these creatures
Living their lives just as I.
And I do wish that I could tell the others,
So that they would understand their own ignorance
In believing that what is right ahead is what is,
But the creatures chose to share the secret of themselves with me.
And like a blessing I’ve discovered it; like a curse I live alone with it.