My Monster

He came to me every night. First in glimpses, as if he were unsure of me. Then he lingered, just outside my periphery, to ensure I wasn’t afraid of him. Then in mirrors. Then by my side.

By the age of 16 he was in my bed every night, instead of under it like when I was younger. I used to whisper my fears through the mattress, my tears bursting quietly against the floor on the edge of darkness. That’s where he hid, next to those shimmery pools, lying in wait to either consume me whole or devour my anxiety. For so long, I wasn’t sure of his intentions.

Now I breathe my suffering into his endless night. My tears disappear against the void of his shoulder and chest. I can only imagine they’re transported to a realm of woe, away from here. He never tells me I’ll be okay, he never says he loves me; I never share my good days, only the painful moments that leave parts of me behind.

The nights are pitch dark when he emerges. But the days are bliss. He vanishes with the morning light, along with all of my suffering.

Nobody will ever believe the stories of my monster, the creature that swallows my darkness. My companion in the void. The consumer of my tears and bestower of daily peace. Maybe he’ll never leave. Their disbelief fuels my tears that keep him fed & by my side.