When I was a child, my mother told me monsters did not live under beds.
I took her word for gospel truth, ignoring the warning they possessed.
At age nineteen, my lover taught me that monsters dwelled on soft, smooth sheets.
That 'stop' was just four empty letters, and he the master of deceit.
Age twenty, I dared ask him why, as I sat trembling alone.
His reply felt like barbed wire, mangling my soul.
He swore he thought I had been acting, he swore he never knew.
I guess the lack of purple skin, made me dismiss it too.
He claimed a few months later, that my memory was impaired,
My sanity infringed; never was I powerless nor scared.
That the panic did not consume me, that my consent was crystal clear.
Though the anger made me bitter, I did not shed a tear.
My insides twisted in frustration, hot and heavy, blackest rage.
Despite the passing of the months, my power remained caged.
Doubt and panic settled in, they enveloped hollow bones.
Safety was a shattered dream, so I uttered anguished moans.
Time slips by like formless sand, tears fall like rain.
But only ever on the inside, as I've learnt to mask the pain.
A tainted man prowls the streets, his smile warm and kind.
And an empty girl fears the monster, that nestles in her mind.