Planning my Escape

There are things in my basement, sniveling, and no one here believes me. Last night I crawled out a first floor window; scraped my shoulder on lead paint peelings. But they'd gotten to the night too; the sky hanging down, heavy as taught fabric, pregnant with light. In place of stars were pinpricks through which liquid brilliance had begun to spill. I slipped back inside before it could burst above me and sealed the window.