I’m older. No longer afraid
of monsters.
Ghosts. Ghouls. Werewolves. The boogeyman.
Silly villains and
bristling beasts
of my childhood cartoons
mean nothing.
I don’t curl up in bed, afraid
of midnight,
terrified to unlock
my arms from my sides.
I don’t tiptoe through the house
at night, or freeze in fear when
I hear the rustle
of curtains caught
in the summer breeze,
mocking my immaturity.
I don’t ask Mom
to stay with me
until I fall
asleep.
I don’t ask Dad
to peek under
the bed for eyes
or a grin.
I’m older. No longer afraid
of monsters.
I’m older. Always afraid
of the real ones.
The phone ringing late
at night
to tell me
no survivors.
Or maybe some,
but not the ones I love.
No farewells.
The brutish creature,
creeping, clutching close
to my paranoia
in an alley,
or maybe much closer
to home.
The darkness of the world
envelopes me
on the sunniest days.
Quick, run inside and
lock the door.
The death I know
will come to me
or to those I love.
These people.
The world that retches
us out
of its evil,
bloody gut
once we’re older.
I’m older. Every bit as afraid.