One morning with a tired mind,
I aimlessly stared into my coffee,
eyeing the cream as it swirled in circles,
and it reminded me of the time we danced
in your kitchen at two in the morning,
and you pulled me into your arms so close
that I could smell the whiskey on your breath.
The world passed by around us in pirouettes
of blurry madness and drunken bliss.
Sometimes it makes me wonder why
the rain on my window pane doesn’t echo the
words you last said to me while we stood alone.

There’s something that makes me spend
more and more time in my room.
It is a dark place,
the lights never get through the window,
there are monsters under the bed,
but they never sleep.

People are not allowed in my room
they can’t even knock at the door;
Some of them know it,
they just let me be alone.
—or maybe they just don’t care—
But sometimes new people arrive in my world,
they try to save me
so they just come in.
And that’s when I hurt them.
And then the monsters make me lock the door,
light a small candle
and read from the book where the pain
writes poems every day,
while they show me pictures of all the people I've hurt,
of everything I've destroyed.

And then my entire being starts screaming, mad at me,
until I shatter and pieces of me cover the floor.
After that comes the silence.


You don't know  how afraid I am
of silent, dark nights
how something just makes me go in there
every time I start feeling
love.

And I wish I could let people in
without hurting them.

But I can't.

So please, don't come in
don't even knock.
Don't try to save me.

There are monsters in my room
and I am the worst of them.