monsters.

i am not lonely.

the darkness speaks to me,

touches and tortures me, not only

but torments the thought of being free

as the only thing i believe. 

in my bed of cobwebs and dust,

the spiders crawl out my ears

the mice lick the salt from my tears

and the demons tell me all the 

things i must do before i die.

while the monsters under my bed

tell me my end my near

my bloated subconscious tells me i’m overfed

and the hellhounds taste my fear,

scratching at my door.

the ice cubes fall from my chest

and the wolves eat it up

i hear crying from the banshees nest 

and the ghosts ask me to make up,

from our fight the other evening.

the bogeyman still sits idly in my closet

i beg him to leave me alone,

but he disobeys in brutal apposite.

no matter how much i’ve grown,

he still scares me to death.

bats crawl under my sheets

and press against my cheek

i hear howling on the streets

but remain in bed full of meek,

imagining the things i don’t see.

often, i wish to be taken by the djinn 

to truly feel what happiness is 

a simple taste of the deadliest sin

until my body is drained into his.

maybe then i can taste freedom to feel real loneliness.