I’ve befriended the strange man
that at night sits on the end of my bed when I sleep.
I used to think that he wore death as a cape,
but I am the one who sleeps among the shadows,
and uses the dark as a duvet, my childhood fears as a pillow.
The monsters under my bed are nothing but
discarded stuffed animals.
The horns on the snarling demons are as cuddly
as a toddler’s teddy bear.
At night when he knocks on my door
I choke on dreams and cry starlight.
Some see him as paralyzing fear,
a waking nightmare.
I used to, too. Until I realised that the real monsters hide
in the daylight.
I embrace the weights he throws on my chest.
They are nothing compared to the hefty load
of the roles I am assigned to in my wake:
daughter,
student,
woman.
My midnight hallucinations have become more
reliable than my human friends,
they always show up on time
and they never disappoint.
It’s the only thing that keeps my mind and body still.
Sometimes paralyzed with fear. But yet still and silent.

I wake up every morning to the taste of blood and
the crunch of
my teeth against my plastic mouthguard.