My Little Monster

I have heard from some that my monster is a boogie man. I have no reason to doubt them, however, my monster is real. He whispers in my ear each night, things I’d never want to know. Mimicking my screams. They say I’m too old to hear the monster, to feel it brush against my sheets. Too old to fear it’s scaly skin touching mine even for the briefest of moments. Too old to consider who will be next. It whispers to me nightly, about it’s last meal. How I will soon be slipping down it’s long, tubular, throat. Yes I’m frightened of the monster, scared to hear it’s rusty voice, because I know, indeed I know that I have no command over its existence . Does that make me a coward, does it make me seem juvenile? Perhaps I am and it does, but the weaker you seem, the less of a priority you are to it.






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