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Beatrice Porter Poem
They did not lie to her,
that sickly sweet girl.
The adults were right all along.
If she looks beneath the squeaking springs,
she will find me here.
In the dark,
crouched low with anticipation
and ready for the kill,
I wait for my cue.
The monster under the bed,
mommy and daddy warned her
about me.
Oh! – But she’s not a little girl anymore
and she knows it.
She’s always been scared to look,
aren’t you?
She’s afraid that shame
looks like a shattered mirror;
that her broken reflection will resemble
her cracking self-image;
that I might capture her
and never let go.
When she doesn’t sneak a peek;
when the soft pads of her feet touch down
just outside of my cave;
when she clothes herself
but doesn’t kiss him goodbye;
I know that she’s mine,
that I'm already eating her up inside.
We’ve been doing this dance for what feels like years --
but I come and go just as she does,
slipping from the bed and out the front door
until next time.
Our tango is twisted and messy and it screws
with her more than those boys she calls men.
I sink into her sweat-slicked flesh
and the stench burns more
than a witches’ stake.
I follow her home,
clinging to the edges of her silver shadow
that shivers in the cold morning fog,
edging out under the harsh sunrise.
Shame is hard to shake,
sweetheart.
It’s going to take a whole lot more
than a cold shower, a bottle of gin,
and a few of her useless tears –
waterworks won’t do anything
to get rid of this guilt.
It's time to grow up,
monsters don't live under beds,
just under your skin.
She’s not a little girl anymore;
maybe one day she’ll realize that.
Copyright © Beatrice Porter | Year Posted 2016
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