who still hide under the bed, 

arousing my demurs.

They whisper their threats,

if I don’t remain silent

about all of the times,

the monsters were violent.

But they don’t use words,

so that I can’t say they did.

But they’d use those words,

if I spoke out, god forbid.

My heart aches with regret sometimes,

for choosing to live out my passion,

when I can’t truly live in the moment,

fearing the possible backlash in

the realm of the monsters,

where pure evil will hide

the fact that the truth in me

has already died.