Death by Clothing

I worry that my coat will murder me. Hanging on Banister’s Edge it’s a man lurking, dark. I’ve seen rows of killers shadowed and waiting, hidden in the ridges of the living room radiator, ready to pounce during a moonlit trip to the toilet. From my position in bed, a stool could be a gremlin hunched, the door frame a monstrous arm arching and looming, holding a hollow void. The sheets around my feet are vines, all patterns the jaws of a Venus flytrap. Snap. Black cabs are hearses, flowerbeds fresh graves; babbling brook rope swings form a noose, gravel paths stone me to death. My cardigan knows it should be a straitjacket, socks and watches nod knowingly towards shackles and manacles imaginary. Cushions on a sofa? Nothing but false sense of security quicksand. (Competition title: No 1299)