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.
