I hear scratching at the door

The wind is up.
Clouds are forming.
Trees are beyond swaying.
Cicadas are still singing, the chorus is loud.
All comforting yet unsettling at the same time.
Can hear the black cat scratching at the door, trying to get in.
It’s not welcome.
The meowing hasn’t started yet.
Can feel myself wanting to open the door, yet I know I shouldn’t.

Easier to open the door.
Letting it in.
Letting it jump all over me.
Demanding attention.
Demanding my time, my soul, my whole.

The black cat is a part of me.
Was roaring loudly for so many years that I couldn’t hear myself.
Found where the roaring was coming from.
From within.
Stopped feeding it.
Starved it.
It stayed silent.

The silence has allowed me to grow.
Finding myself.
Took me long enough.
Yet I still hear…
The door with the scratching sound.
It’s close.
I gave it a little attention a moment ago.
It grows hungry.

The black cat.

It is me, yet not me.
It is a part of me, not my best part, but still me.
I accept it now.
I see it face on.
I know it’s there.
I chose to walk away from the black cat.

It’s a part of me that craves attention.
If the black cat gets it’s way,
It would eat all day,
And demand more.
More food, more attention, more time.
And only sleep when I sleep.

It isn’t the me of now.
Of today.

Walk away.
Don’t look back.
Walk away from the scratching sound.
Ignore it.
Walk away.
Walk away.
Walk away.