I’m sitting on a bench
And midnight is trudging through the sidewalk, reminding that
It is time for the living to cross to the land of dreams
And for monsters to roam the streets
But I am not scared of them
Not really.

When a monster comes for my soul, its yellow eyes aglow
With the grace of an ancient street lamp
I am scared that
It will find nothing in there, only a shell
I fear that when it grabs my collar and
Shoves me headfirst into the snow
I will land, light as a feather, and leave not a single mark
Not a single streak of scarlet on abominable white,
Before the blazing sun rises and melts
Everything away.

I fear that I am simply a breath held for too long and
When finally let go
I will disperse into nothingness,
And everyone will relax.

I fear that if a person, not a monster, came
And lied next to me
My bedsheet and pillow would not smell like me.
There would be not a single trace of me in the bed
I spend eternities in, every morning.
I fear that if were to pour my heart and soul into a letter
The envelope will not bulge and stay paper-thin.
I fear that the letter will never reach its destination.

I am scared that my cracks can
no longer hold anything inside
without spilling.
I fear that I have been broken and broken and mended for too long that,
What remains resembles nothing.
Knows nothing.
Loves nothing.
And I fear that once the monster realizes that
It will leave, too.