Monster Under My Bed

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What if the monster under my bed is me; and those voices & (strange) noises that I hear at night, what if they’re just echoes of screams from all the hopes and dreams that I killed, strangling them before they could turn on me?

 

What if the demon that I dread, demon with a capital D, what if I finally meet him & it turns out he’s not who I thought he’d be. If I find out he hadn’t been stalking me all these years, sneaking around like a thief, or lying in wait.  What if he was always right here & I didn’t see him because I never bothered to look in the mirror.

 

What if most of the stories I tell myself, about life, are just words I’ve woven together, a web to catch the inconvenient truth that sneaks into my den of delusion.

 

What if I don’t really know myself at all, & it turns out there’s much more than meets the eye, that even my darker side has a dark side - which borders on black if it’s denied. 

 

Could I face all of that honestly, admit the possibility at least that I’m not who I think I am, and never was.

Could I stare into the depths of my own darkness without turning away?

And if I did, what else would I see