These Monsters of Mine

These Monsters Of Mine

I have these monsters

With shadowy shark eyes

With large lion fangs

With black bat wings

They circle me like raptors circle prey

They bark but never bite

They swoop but never strike

Leaving me contemplating extreme escapes like

Sleeping and never waking

Or shedding my skin and leaving myself behind.

Like scavengers, they lie

Waiting

For my will to tire

Waiting

For my drugs to expire

Waiting

For my angels to retire

They land (I see their silhouettes loom in the corner of my eye)

They creep (I feel their footsteps tingle up my spine)

They growl (I hear their sonic boom bounce around my skull)

“Wanna play catch?” Their leader says.

“What?” I say.

“Catch,” it says, “Wanna play it?”

“You wanna play catch?”

“Boy… you’re a slow one, aren’t you?” It replies.

“But… aren’t you a monster?” I reply.

“We never called ourselves that—you did. We only look like monsters.”

“OK… so you’re not monsters?”

“Nope.”

“What are you then?”

“We’re like you—we don’t know what we are. But we’re trying to find out.”

“I see.”

“We definitely like playing catch though—we don’t know why. It’s like a weird compulsion.”

“I get it—we like the smell of our own poop. We don’t know why. No one talks about it.”

“Exactly. You get it.”

“So... the swooping, the creeping, the growling… that was because you wanted to play catch?”

“Yup.”

“OK, I’ll play with you. But next time, just ask if I wanna play catch. OK?”

“Sure thing, hombre!”

I stopped calling them monsters

They stopped circling me like raptors

We played catch, like happy black dogs.

Sometimes, their faces catch me by surprise

And I remember that they look like monsters

And I get scared all over again

But it never lasts long

Because now I know these monsters of mine

Are just like me—

Not good, not bad

Just a cosmic accident, seeking an explanation for itself.