There’s sometimes a space between closing the door and turning on the light. In the darkness I see tentacles, I see bursts of evil, I flick a switch and swear everything scary is under the bed. Alone, I’ll run out of bathroom cubicles, I’ll hurriedly wash my hands in the sink, I’ll feel a face creeping up behind the mirror, walk double speed down a school corridor desperate for company, followed by a feeling someone is watching.
On weekends I’ll wait at a bus stop- a man with a cigarette stares at my skirt I shift my glance sideways, I stand next to the lady with the pushchair, I grip my ticket fiercely. I stare at empty bedsheets and covered walls and wonder if the body will be gone soon, too, I celebrate and **** the knock on the door, I wait for the day it won’t come. I spill out my words and wait for ridicule I paint out patterns that shouldn't exist I feel the silent murmurs of disagreement I swallow down my pride and hide.
I hide away in my bedsheets so the monsters cannot get me. I hide away at bus stops so the monsters will not get me. I hide away from confessions so the monsters cannot get me. As long as I cannot be courageous; the monsters will not get me.