He calls me the Black Monkey.
Not because I play.
Not because I leap.
But because I undo.
I break the branches I swing from.
I laugh, and the sound curdles.
Everything bright rots a little faster when I arrive.
I don’t sneak in — I drop, hard.
You’ll feel me in the corners first:
the dishes left too long,
the message unanswered,
the mirror avoided,
the words unspoken.
Then I take more.
Color fades.
Sound dulls.
Your name feels like someone else’s.
The Black Dog? Yes, he’s my kin.
He walks — I wreck.
He drags you into the ground.
I tear the ground apart beneath you.
He is grief — I am corrosion.
He wants to stay.
I want to destroy.
When I’m here, time stops making sense.
A week dissolves into the same gray morning.
You blink, and the day’s gone —
but somehow it never ends.
I chew on memory.
I eat the middle out of joy and leave the shell behind.
You’ll look at something beautiful and feel… nothing.
That’s me — gnawing the wires of your heart.
People tell you there are things to be excited for.
They mean well.
They build ladders of advice:
“Reach out if you need any help.”
“Keep going.”
“Stay positive.”
I burn every rung before you climb.
You can’t outsmart me.
I wear your logic like a coat.
I chitter in your own voice —
convincing, patient, kind.
You’ll forget the sound of your laugh.
You’ll forget what hunger feels like, or what a good night’s sleep used to look like.
You’ll forget that forgetting isn’t normal.
But there’s something I can’t devour — not completely.
When someone sits beside you
and doesn’t look away.
When a voice, steady and real,
reaches through the static —
I flinch.
I hate warmth.
It reminds you that I am temporary.
It shows you that I am only noise —
and that you are still underneath.
That’s when I fall from your shoulder.
Not far, but enough.
Enough to make space for breath,
for sound, for a glimpse of color,
for something other than me.
Still, don’t mistake me for gone.
I’m a stain with a memory.
I’ll come back when the light falters.
When your laughter sounds too forced.
When quiet starts to ache again.
Because I am not peace’s opposite.
I am its echo — twisted and repeating.
The part of you that forgets what living feels like.
I am the Black Monkey.
I don’t want your fear.
I want your emptiness.
I want the part of you that used to reach.
And until you reach again —
here I stay, on your shoulder,
making your arm heavy.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 12:57 AM UTC
He calls me the Black Monkey.
Not because I play.
Not because I leap.
But because I undo.
I break the branches I swing from.
I laugh, and the sound curdles.
Everything bright rots a little faster when I arrive.
I don’t sneak in — I drop, hard.
You’ll feel me in the corners first:
the dishes left too long,
the message unanswered,
the mirror avoided,
the words unspoken.
Then I take more.
Color fades.
Sound dulls.
Your name feels like someone else’s.
The Black Dog? Yes, he’s my kin.
He walks — I wreck.
He drags you into the ground.
I tear the ground apart beneath you.
He is grief — I am corrosion.
He wants to stay.
I want to destroy.
When I’m here, time stops making sense.
A week dissolves into the same gray morning.
You blink, and the day’s gone —
but somehow it never ends.
I chew on memory.
I eat the middle out of joy and leave the shell behind.
You’ll look at something beautiful and feel… nothing.
That’s me — gnawing the wires of your heart.
People tell you there are things to be excited for.
They mean well.
They build ladders of advice:
“Reach out if you need any help.”
“Keep going.”
“Stay positive.”
I burn every rung before you climb.
You can’t outsmart me.
I wear your logic like a coat.
I chitter in your own voice —
convincing, patient, kind.
You’ll forget the sound of your laugh.
You’ll forget what hunger feels like, or what a good night’s sleep used to look like.
You’ll forget that forgetting isn’t normal.
But there’s something I can’t devour — not completely.
When someone sits beside you
and doesn’t look away.
When a voice, steady and real,
reaches through the static —
I flinch.
I hate warmth.
It reminds you that I am temporary.
It shows you that I am only noise —
and that you are still underneath.
That’s when I fall from your shoulder.
Not far, but enough.
Enough to make space for breath,
for sound, for a glimpse of color,
for something other than me.
Still, don’t mistake me for gone.
I’m a stain with a memory.
I’ll come back when the light falters.
When your laughter sounds too forced.
When quiet starts to ache again.
Because I am not peace’s opposite.
I am its echo — twisted and repeating.
The part of you that forgets what living feels like.
I am the Black Monkey.
I don’t want your fear.
I want your emptiness.
I want the part of you that used to reach.
And until you reach again —
here I stay, on your shoulder,
making your arm heavy.