Sleeping With Monsters It’s my bedroom in my parent’s house, like always of course there is no bed. I cannot sleep in beds beneath their roof. There’s a couch they got me for my twenty-third birthday, massive, on scale with nothing in this room or house, makes an entire length of wall completely unavailable for bookshelves, that’s where my bear and blanket and bad-dreams sleep. I sleep facing a window, usually opened at least a crack, at least at night, at least at the part of night when I first lie down for sleep or sleep attempts, which is nearly always very early morning, If monsters haunt my room they should have away out. You can’t keep out the ghosts, the nightmare-smells, the things that go ugghh in the night, any child knows, all can be done is ensure clear exit, pray they don’t get trapped. Leave the doors and windows ajar and pray they’ll be gone before it’s day again; anything left in your bed when the sun comes up isn’t likely soon to disappear. May linger until you cannot remember a time your bedspace was not shared with monster-smells, your pillow night-breath damp. Oh monster-licked children, what have you done to attract such awful friends? When prayers fail you’ll create spells to dispel them. Barricade your door with fairy-tales and bootleg stacks of sound. Curl blanket-headed in attempts to sleep. The grown-ups cannot hear your crying at night, you know the grown-ups are never going to come. After your bedtime the grownups grow powerless, disappear cease to exist 'til breakfast-morning-day; when the sun comes up smelling like burnt bread and blue-jeans your parents will reappear at the foot of your sleepy bed, calling your name, unaware of the time they missed—each night-time there are just monsters and you.  ¶ 10:41 PM