If only they had stayed under the bed,
those monsters. They were easier then
to avoid. Looking back, they were even
kinda cute under there, what with their drool
and blue shag and enormous unblinking eyes.
I never once noticed the stink of them then.
Now, the monsters look just like you and me,
permeating everything with the scent
of second-hand fear, the smell of something inside
that has died—joy, perhaps? Or maybe the death
of the sense that anything, even love, is possible.