The Monsters Live in Me Now

As a child, the monsters were easy to spot.

The villain wore a sinister smile and twirled his mustache.

Ghouls and goblins lurked beneath my bed, waiting with gnashing teeth.

The Boogeyman glared with burgundy eyes from the depths of the closet, whispering terrifying words.

But

The hero always conquered the villain with ease and grace, and everyone lived happily ever after.

The dinosaurs on my blanket fought off the ghouls and goblins in the night.

The closet door could be shut and locked tight, and a nightlight staved off the dark.

Then, I grew. And they became more intelligent.

They took up residence in my mind.

They became less easy to spot.

Hiding in shadows, lurking in corners, smiling their malevolent smiles,

They poison me.

Their whispers taunt me and frighten me and destroy me,

And they can’t be beaten.

No hero in shining armor swoops down from his mighty steed to carry me away.

I can’t escape them.

The dinosaurs on my blanket lay silent now, lifeless stitches in a tattered fabric.

I can’t fight them.

There is no door to shut, no comforting light,

NOTHING.

And they win. They always do.

But I can’t hate them.

I can’t hate the way they shroud everything in darkness, and scream obscenities at me, and snatch my deepest insecurities from the sickest reaches of my mind to fling them at me with gleeful abandon.

I can’t hate them,

Because they are me.  

And they are the only ones who see me for who I am.

They remind me, with vicious implication,

That I can’t escape the abyss,

And that I shouldn’t try.