I have a pet monster
who lives on my bed,
and every night we play.
Sometimes he's red,
sometimes he's blue,
but right now he's a little green.
My monster doesn't like my friends,
but he visits them all the time.
I don't know why.
He's started living in my pockets
so he can see them more,
and the more he sees them,
the bigger he gets.
He won't fit much longer.
He's getting too big
to hide in my pockets.
My monster promises me things.
He talks of dreams,
of would-be's,
of could-have-been's.
And every night
he tugs at my hair.
He doesn't like it when I sleep,
so he tries to keep me awake.
He talks and talks,
like nails on a chalkboard.
Scraping. Scratching.
White knuckles. Bleeding cheeks.
The cold fingers running down my ear.
No dreams, no would-be's.
This is the stuff nightmare are made of.
This is the stuff life is made of.
You can't sleep
when you're numb with fear.
Now he's back in my pocket.
Scraping. Scratching.
Doesn't anyone else hear?
No? I'll keep him a secret, then.
Stifle him, strangle him.
Drown him out.
Lock him in my closet.
But he's too smart for that,
and now he wants revenge.
Claws growing, eyes glowing.
I clench my present to my gut,
I keep it safe.
Then it starts to unravel from the ends.
He weaves the string into tapestries
of if-only's, of cannot-be's,
of should-have-been's.
I can keep him out of now,
but he gets to have then.
I have a pet monster
who lives in my head.
He's a bully. A tumor.
He's growing.
He doesn't promise me things.
Not anymore. There are no dreams,
would-be's, or could-have-been's.
There's nothing coherent
about my monster now.
My thoughts are blurry and muffled.
There's no more sting.
Just an echo.
My monster is starting to win.
I used to live alone with empty pockets.
I had no would-be's, no should-have-been's.
Then my monster came,
and all my friends ran away.