It’s funny the stories we tell ourselves,
And how easy it is to believe them,
Wholly, completely, without reservation.
The closet is filled with monsters,
Creatures of the night,
Who lurk in the dark,
Hiding from light,
Awaiting their moment,
Of when I sleep,
Which never comes,
Shaking awake at every creak.
I’ve told myself so many stories over the years,
Stories of monsters that lurk in the basement,
Under the bed,
In the spider-infested and rusted out shed.
Some of these stories I remember vividly.
Reality cannot compete with what my imagination has shown.
Like the dream of my father, taken, ripped from our home.
It was Christmas,
And I bounced down the stairs,
Seeing the tree,
And knowing what I’d find there.
My parents smiled,
With presents abound,
But for moment,
Until the door behind them was ripped down.
A creature entered,
Skin sagging and brown,
Claws like cracked glass,
That pulled my father to the ground.
Blood poured from his gut,
As he was dragged out the door,
My mom screaming in terror,
At the sight of the gore.
Then it was over,
I awoke to the day,
Now with a memory,
That would never fade away.
What happened at my first baseball game?
Or my 6th grade Halloween party?
Or the day my now-adopted brother was given his name?
I don’t know,
And yet I still watch out on Christmas,
Waiting for the creature to show.