there is a monster beneath the lofty, billowing sheets of my bed beneath the mattress the box spring the carefully crafted wooden frame.
[he lives in the shadows, in the obscurity there.]
i should feel sheltered...safe, underneath these sheets, [like my mother’s arms tucking me in tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.]
but when my arm dangles off my bed, when i commit that fatal mistake, i feel a draw to the ground more forceful than the force of gravity seizing my hand paining to pull me under. and i know it is the monster. i feel his yearning for the blood and guts of a child... his desire to rip me apart like a lion does his prey.
i take back control of my hand, wrap my arms around myself, feigning safety. for as we all know that monster could very well clamber, creep out climb onto my bed and swallow me whole.
i don’t know why he hasn’t yet -- perhaps he likes the challenge of waiting for me to be susceptible enough to forget myself and leave my arm suspended for more than just a moment.
i am curled up into a fetal position paralyzed by my fear. the anxiety invades my joints so that i cannot move anymore. i fall into a fitful sleep and wake up to sunshine radiating through my window, casting the intricate patterns of my curtains on the rug.
during the day, the monster cannot survive. but when nighttime falls the darkness returns, my trepidation returns and the monster is alive. well, again.