I dream of monsters.

When I was a little girl
and slept on the top bunk
in a crowded, wood-paneled bedroom,
I’d dream of monsters.

When the fireflies turned out their lights
and fluorescent street lamps glowed warily,
I’d squint into the nothingness
of the witching hour
and feel the thumping racing of my heart.

Skewed refractions of light
cast menacing shadows of grotesque creatures
onto walls and pillowcases
while the muffled snoring down the hall
was surely a dragon’s roar.

And it would seem that the Sandman
has missed the little girl
tucked tightly into the corner of an old bunk,
a frayed blanket gathered
around the nape of her neck.

“Go away!” I’d plead quietly
to the monsters complicit
in forcing their way through my defense
as they lurked along walls,
in dresser drawers,
under beds
and behind doors.

When I was a little girl,
I felt anxiety for the very first time
as it manifested itself
in irrational fears
and uneasy abstraction.

And it was easy, too easy,
to learn to let them in,
to let the monsters who walled me in the darkness
take up coveted, permanent space
inside my growing mind.

When I was a little girl,
I’d dream of monsters.

I still do.