hiding from the things that go bump in the night in your mind doesn’t make them any less monster
Amorphous shadows hiding beneath creaky beds
and in dingy closets and shoved under Persian rugs.
There is no other name more fitting for such silhouettes than “monster.”
Monsters of subspecies unknown that grow more and more by the day
when I don’t give them the time of day
and keep the lights on all night to keep them at bay
and play max-volume music to keep out their grunts and growls.
I’m not ready to slay them let alone face them—No, not now.
My steps and breaths come much more easy breezy
when I just leave them in the places I don’t care to look.
Maybe my negligence will make them disappear.
Maybe some shooting star will grant me this one wish:
This here is far too crowded; take it all away for a while
but leave behind the scent of chamomile.
But what if there were no actual monsters in the first place?
What if I give these ominous shapes the time of day
and turn off the lights at sundown
so they can come out to play?
What if I listen to them,
validate their pain even?
Would they devolve back to
a scared child
that looks just like me?
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