1
There are two kinds of monsters,
and there are two kinds of days you learn what they are.
There are closet monsters. There are under-the-bed monsters. There are outside-in-the-dark monsters.
These monsters occupy one kind of space
of time
of danger.
These monsters are unfamiliar. Molds of your childish over-imagination. Borrowed nightmares.
These are monsters you do not recognize.
There are monsters you recognize, too.
But you will not learn this until you have to.
2
It’s a day you don’t remember,
and you are making a monster.
It is blue-green. It is beautiful. It is supposed to be you.
They said to build yourself. A version of it, anyways.
You are a tiger.
You are grand. You are blessed. You are larger than life.
(Larger than you can understand.)
And you are innocent.
You will not be for much longer.
You don’t see it. Not now.
But the monsters are creeping out of the shadows.
And they want something from you.
3
It is a day you remember a little better, and the monsters have arrived.
They didn’t need to hunt for very long.
You let them in the door.
These monsters look like the ones you used to know.
Well. Maybe.
Maybe their teeth aren’t as sharp. Maybe they walk upright. Maybe they appear a little more human than your young self gave them credit for.
But who can expect a child to know what to look for?
You know better, now.
Don’t you?
You know the monsters mean well.
But your mother wonders if they tell you things.
No, you say.
They only ask.
4
You have stopped answering.
And they have started taking.
At first it was little things.
A day here.
A night there.
Moments of your life that you do not care enough to chase them down for.
They leave you things, at least.
A stagnant morning.
A sleepless evening.
Temporal fragments, replaced and running good-as-new.
And you do not complain.
What better do you deserve?
5
But it starts to hurt, what the monsters take.
And when it starts to hurt, you start to fall apart.
Because the monsters never hurt you before.
They were friends, even.
6
The monsters don’t take anymore.
You gave up.
You gave in.
You simply gave.
You gave your time.
You gave your memories.
You gave the ones you love.
And there is nothing left for them to swallow.
And when they stopped taking,
you started.
But you do not take things.
You take people.
They are all you have left.
6 ½
You will take from those who left you.
You will take from those you have left.
Most of all,
you will take from those who stayed.
You will take from them and you will not regret it.
You will not regret much of anything.
You will not feel much of anything.
Or you will not recall, at least.
The monsters took that part of you. Remember?
7
You learned,
when you were young,
to run from the dark.
And you learn,
now that you are not,
that it lives in your head and it has carved out a space you can never run from.
8
There was the day you did not recognize the monsters from your childhood.
There was the day they did not recognize you.
Because your mother says she doesn’t know who you are
And your friends fear what you may do if they leave you alone long enough
And you are not yourself.
Maybe you never were.
Maybe the monsters you have been running from were never truly chasing you.
Maybe you were going in circles.
9
You are a monster.
You were a child.
And you never knew better.
And by the time you did,
it was too late.
10
Because you were a child,
and they asked you to hold up a mirror to a self that barely exists.
And you are a child,
and you don’t know how to do that.
And you are a child,
and you are making a monster,
and you are another kind of monster.
One you have not had the chance to meet yet.
You are a child,
and you will ruin any chance you had at being one before you know it has happened.
11
But you were a child,
and you did not mean it.
And maybe you will always be a monster.
And maybe you will learn to live despite it.
12
It is a day you will remember,
and you are making a monster
out of papier-mâché.
It is blue-green.
It is beautiful.
13
And so are you.