The Monsters Inside Me

I stopped checking under the bed for monsters,

when I realized they were inside me.

I am tired of all the dead scales

left inside the empty pit of my stomach.

I am tired of the snaggled teeth,

sharp and striated, combing the fibers

of my stomach line; reminding me

of the emptiness under a cat’s ear.

I refuse to remember the dead

monster, still throbbing inside me.

She is a bad dream in a graveyard,

and tired of my bored disposition.

Everyone is to blame for the last shot of booze,

the mud trackings in the hallway;

the thin lips of a beauty queen;

for the wafting feathers from a pillow,

the grieving addict of a vacant coffee pot.

Go on! Go back down,

to the hole where moles type

the elegy notes of your funeral.

I lived there.

I’ve lied down in the place

where their faces are,

and felt darkness;

and felt nothing.