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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.

This little Black Box is a little Black Hole;
it's dark as dark and cold as cold.
It sucks you in and you never want out;
it's dark as dark and cold as cold
but you can hide in the nooks of the tree's white folds
till the lights come out and you love
to see what you hate.

A strange kind of man lives in this funny little box,
with his hoods and his bards and bears and queer white maggots.
He makes this box a little black hole
that's dark as dark and cold as cold.
He makes you love to see what you hate,
to be happy because you're sad
with the music and dancing and laughs and screams;
it's strange as strange and free as free.

In this house of string with its roof of net
and the floating tables where birds go to die,
with the music of the 30s and 50s and now,
with buckets on our heads and masks of snow,
with the bodies of babies and the poodles of stone,
where we made a wastrel into a noble ass,
and fought and fell in love and laughed
and died, we all take our chance
to remind ourselves just who we area
as we lose ourselves for one last time,
then we take ourselves off and mourn our loss.

This little Black Box is a little Black Spot;
it's darker than dark and colder than cold
and with this strange kind of man we're left all alone.