As a child I used to hide from monsters under my sheets -
They weren’t under the bed, they were in the kitchen.
I could hear the echoes of their whispers curl round the edges of the door.
They‘d often push it open a crack.
I’d pretend to be asleep - that’s where I felt safest;
Sometimes I’d convince myself I really wasn’t conscious.
They’d slither away when they saw no light in my eyes to extinguish.
But they’d always leave the door open.
I used to watch the light from outside fight the shadows
I used to urge it to win.

By the crack of the door
I would crouch and listen  
And what I heard
Was my mother weeping,
“I wish my daughter would change.”
I stayed quiet so she wouldn’t hear me.
Every night, I got quieter still
Until she began to say instead,
“I wish my daughter would speak.”
And I wished I could give her what she wished for
But she didn’t understand
That it had been easy for me to **** her daughter
But seemed nearly impossible to build her a new one.

Things changed for me then -
I grew tired of watching the light try to harness and tame the darkness
(Or maybe the other way around).
I’d before felt things were black and white.
I’d seen the darkness as evil
And longed for the light,
But as time went on I learned that demons lurk in all wavelengths.
I was fickle; I flocked to the winning side.
I became convinced that darkness was safety,
That in it I could project what I wanted.
Then whenever they’d move away from the door
I’d tiptoe to close it.