One day, a little girl asked me if I believed in monsters.
I smiled.
I then grabbed the truth by its collar,
I wrestled it to the ground,
Tucked it deep underneath my arm
And I said, "Love, you know monsters aren't real."

And it's times like this where I wish that my sentences came with receipts so I could take back my words.

I wasn't being completely honest.

When I spoke to her,
I almost choked on the secret that has been stapled to the inside of my throat for longer than I can remember:
Not only do I believe in monsters,
But I've actually seen them whisper themselves into existence.
I heard they carve nightmares on the eyelids of the innocent
And then linger in the dark corners,
Preying on the unsuspecting.

Somehow, they've figured out how to crawl through 8mm film and walk backwards straight into the dreams of those who have never, ever, ever been afraid to sleep.

I believe in monsters the same way that I believe in oxygen.
So tell me:
How big is you closet?
How much space is really underneath the beds that you shake in the middle of the night?
You are a vampire.
A werewolf in sheep's clothing.
You swallow halos, and then spit out nuses.

How, how can I not believe in monsters when I see men like you,
Walking with your knuckles scraping against the concrete
You stand, perched on the screams of assaulted women
And then squeeze yourself into costumes that fool the public into thinking that you are human.

How, how dare you have the audacity to impersonate me.
How dare you pretend as though there isn't a woman out there scrubbing her thighs until they turn stop sign red trying to erase your finger prints from her skin.
How can you start to believe that your blood is just as blue as mine?

When you speak I can smell Dante's Inferno on your breath.

I spent that last five years of my life wondering how you escaped from hell
And wasted far too many nights thinking of painful ways I can send you back.
I've carved galaxies on the inside of my throat just to make your world a little easier for me to swallow
But I can't stand the taste of your behavior.

Honestly,
Every time you cross my path,
I get the sudden urge to tie you to a chair,
Cover you in gasoline,
And set your body on fire.
Granted, I am no Van Helstein
But I've seen enough horror movies to know how to get rid of you.

What hurts me the most is that I know, even if I killed you,
There are still millions of monsters walking this earth
Pretending to be men.