The monsters under my bed don’t scare me anymore.
But they are all still there, at the back of my mind, under the goose-down pillows I made a fort out of.
I shut my eyes to the world they live in, and find myself away from them, away fromtheir whispers.
The monsters under my bed have grown, just like me.
I fear new things, but maybe they don’t know that yet,
because they stay hidden, unnerved and suspiciously quiet. Maybe they’re onto something, but maybe they’re not.
Swords wrought out of the shadows and my running imagination forge a measly ward against the monsters under my bed.
I still can’t reach them, even if I tried to. My arm would hurt from blindly slashing at the misery pooled in under the covers.
They’re not coming out ever, are they? I hear my seven year-old self tugging at the hem of my shirt, as if I would be able to shield both of us from the unknown.
“I don’t know,” I replied, offering a weak smile, to the wide-eyed reflection that once wandered off with monsters under the bed.