I lay awake at night as the monster rips at my skin. I have to do what everyone else can do despite the monster. Me and the monster are not friends. But, when people poke at the monster I will defend it with my life.
It is frustrated.
It twists when I tell the truth about it. Clings to the bars, knowing what they will hear when I talk about it.
“It’s hard to accept at 20,”
“What a poor life they will have to live.”
The monster knows I won’t betray its trust to anyone. I scream until my throat bleeds to not feel bad, to not make fun, to see us as beautiful. But me and the monster lay in bed, and it scratches until my insides bleed.
Sometimes I will show them the monster. I roll over and whisper about the monster but tell him not to worry. I have the monster figured out. They squeeze me, and the monster and I turn red. The monster knows he must sleep for the person in the bed has made it known.
Will the monster and I live here forever? Eternally bound to one and other.
Will the monster listen to my pleads?
It doesn’t matter. The real monster is the rest of you.