they say that monsters live under our beds
or in our souls
or in us
but they are wrong.

monsters live in the dusty corner of the old memory lane
it lives in his fleeting but indifferent smiles
it stitches back the broken heart in an old band-aid
already used and covered in dried blood

monsters live in the notes of an old lullaby that mother used to hum
it drifts within the chilled November air of the time she gone to heaven
it breathes the familiar smell of burnt twigs and spray cans that decorates her tomb

monsters live not in the souls of our hearts
but around the souls of the gone and the dead

we think their memories are safely tucked and locked
the key thrown all the way in the middle of the Pacific Ocean

but no,
it always comes back
at night
through our hollowed brain
we see them
not the beautiful humans they once were
but as hideous monsters, slowly eating up our hearts