The monster under my bed is real; I have seen it, felt it. It tugs at me, pulling me under when I try to sleep. The monster under my bed keeps me up at night. I yearn for rest, but I cannot escape the creature that has made its home in the space between my conscious and my unconscious. Sometimes, we play games. It tickles at my feet and whispers a sort-of sweet nothing to me.
What if? What if we escaped together?
It pokes and prods at my arm that dangles over the edge.
What if? What if everything were different?
Sometimes, we even lay together. We are intimate, it pulls me so close, I almost feel myself roll completely off the edge with it, almost engulfed in the darkness of the underside of my mattress.
Entangled; what if? What if everything had a happy ending?
There are scratch marks on either of our backs.
While speaking in memories and rhymes and promises, it nibbles at my ear and its breath is warm like my covers around me, though I am exposing myself - promising that it will keep me warm should I lose myself to it instead of the peace of my sheets.
It knows the inner-workings of my brain that I do not know, it uncovers ideas that I have never considered, right when the world is dark, and I have a chance to see your face again in my dreams. But instead, I lay with the monster under my bed.
Just for a moment.
I desperately claw my way back to my pillows; feathers shower me as I rip them from my comforter. I am confused in what is supposed to be my safe space.
I resist the monster under my bed. Only when I really try hard enough. Because the only thing I want more than to play games with the what ifs and different endings, is to finally be the one who got away.
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