We once searched beneath our beds,
checked closets for shadows—
afraid of the dark,
afraid of what might breathe in it.
We ran to our parents,
sure they were invincible,
shielded from the world’s sharp edges.
After all, when you're grown,
you understand everything.
Right?
Wrong.
We spent our youth aching to grow up,
craving answers,
power,
the chance to confront the monster ourselves—
just to prove we could.
But time, unkind teacher,
revealed what childhood never could:
the world is fractured,
and our parents—
only human,
fumbling through the unknown,
learning to fight their own demons.
And eventually,
we stopped looking under the bed.
Because the monsters
weren’t hiding anymore—
they were everywhere.
In mirrors,
on sidewalks,
in the faces of those we once trusted.
In classmates who belittled,
in boys who punished a ‘no,’
in men who stare like hunger,
and friends who smile
while whispering knives behind your back.
We no longer fear the dark—
only what daylight refuses to reveal.
We lie awake,
not in wonder,
but in worry.
The safety we imagined in adulthood
shattered
when Mom broke down,
Dad snapped under weight of bills,
and the future stopped promising answers—
only uncertainty.
And suddenly,
the monster beneath the bed
seems gentle in comparison.
You lift the cover,
meet his eyes.
He isn’t terrifying—
just loyal.
A witness to all your growing pains.
You feared him,
but trusted the ones who broke you.
You mistook appearance for intent.
And now,
you thank him.
Embrace him.
Let him go.
He kept you safe
when no one else could.
But your childhood is over,
and the world doesn’t wait.
Still, you mourn—
not just the loss of innocence,
but the realization:
the monsters were never under your bed.
They were always in plain sight.