Under your bed hide monsters,
slimy, scaly, animated creatures,
your own creations.
You wish them dead, but they are you,
are they not?
Like the dread that snakes its way
under your skin
before your pencil hits the paper,
you wish your mind was muslin
unsullied by thoughts that would
stain the paper, and then you’ll be caught.
Your closet, with its disarray
is just another disguise
for your totalitarian being.
It’s a disguise so you’re not
accused of crimes you committed
when you were wide awake.
But you’re birthing phoenixes
to kill freaks, to pluck them out
like worms in an infested marsh.
To root out rebellions, to know all.
See that metal edge of that bolted trunk,
my blood-spewing finger,
her tear-spilling eyes?
Some secrets die defending themselves.