There is a monster

(Bit of a personal poem to blow off some steam and work through some emotions)

There is a monster in my house

It eats neither flesh nor bone

But leaves gouges on the soul shaped like teeth impressions  

I creep with hesitant steps so the monster doesn’t hear, treading lightly, a ghost trapped between four expensive walls. I watch my footing and the floorboards, avoiding the creeks so the monster doesn’t stir.

There is a monster in my house

It eats neither flesh nor bone

But its sour Medusa glances takes the warmth from the room

I erased my existence. Clean up my messes. Hide away the evidence that there was anyone else who lived in this home. I am footprints fading in the sand. Here but forgotten. Safe when not noticed.

There is a monster in my house

It eats neither flesh nor bone

But its quiet words are hollow fangs sucking the happiness from my blood

“Watch the tone of your voice,” I say to visitors wary enough to enter. “The monster has sharp ears. It will lie dormant until you leave and then rise for the hunt.” What I don’t say is, “You won’t be the prey because you’re not trapped in this cage.”

There is a monster in my house

It eats neither flesh nor bone

But its two-way faces make it hard to determine which way it will lung 

Vigilance is exhaustive but a body copes. It learns to read the signs like hunting trails. Passiveness begets aggressions, be wary. Words have double meaning, always watch the face. The sound of mundanity hide threats, and flippant words are venomous.

There is a monster in my house

It eats neither flesh nor bone

But it lives and it breathes and it eats and it thinks it isn’t a monster at all. But what monster thinks itself a monster? What is an ant to a human but a pest? What is a human to an ant but a force of nature? So then what are scars painted by words and glances but inconsequential moments of, “I don’t remember ever doing that.”  

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