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.
