The dark is melting, poured
into this thin-walled room.
I may not want to talk to
real people…but I do want
to talk about something real.
The thin walls are good
listeners, after all.
They know how Plath’s
words “Daddy, daddy,
you bastard, I’m through,”
sound like a hammered nail
in the coffin of a spectral patriarch.
And that’s all that needs to be
said. Because maybe they’ll
pass on the message to that
man who is most certainly dead.
Dear Monster under the Bed,
There are times when I just sit in the dark and my thoughts turn to you. I know that the more I think of you, the more you think of me.
You’re the only form of company I have and it seems as if I’m yours. We’ve been sharing the same bed for too long to be anything else, nothing but two sides of the same mattress.Though, I’m unsure which side is murkier… I’ve gotten to be quite close to the demons dancing in my mind.
And you’ve heard all my dirty dark secrets, the words I whisper to myself and the things I can’t say beyond the four walls of my room. Sometimes it’s as if someone is listening but it’s always been you. Only you.
The tears I’ve cried into the pillow have seeped below my bed till you soaked it up like a blanket. You must be intoxicated from the sadness like I am when I’m drinking my time away.
We’re a dysfunctional pair that can’t live without the other. We’re more alike than you think. You know me better than anyone else. There may be a reason for that.
Because we’re not enemies. We’re not friends.
We’re the same.
sincerely yours,
The Monster above the Bed
p.s See you on the other side (pun intended).
a/n: I’m obsessed with The Monster. Eminem and Rihanna seriously need to record a whole album, I swear.
-VD
The Tea-Infused Typewriter 