There were monsters under the bed
when I was small —
shadows that crept when the lights went out,
teeth made of night,
hands made of nothing but fear.
Mama said they weren’t real,
just tricks of the dark.
But she never looked close enough
to see the ones growing inside me.
The monsters learned my name.
They whispered it softly
when I tried to sleep,
sang lullabies of shame
and promises of pain.
As I grew older,
they stopped hiding under the bed.
They moved in —
set up home behind my eyes,
curled around my thoughts,
and told me I was theirs.
Now I make the bed every morning,
neat corners, clean sheets,
pretending the space beneath is empty.
But some nights,
I still hear breathing —
not from the floor,
but from within.
And I realize
the scariest thing about growing up
is learning the monsters never leave.
They just change address.
From under the bed
to inside your head.
Through the Fog 