I'm 15 and I'm still deathly scared of the monsters. The ones under my bed, the ones in my closet, the ones in my head, and the real ones.
I hate the dark. I hate the coldness that comes from under my bed. I hate when the house creeks.
I hate that my mind allows me to see the eyes in my closet. To hear the laughs.
But I hate the monsters in my head the most I think. The depression and the anger. The insecurity. The paranorma. The flashback and nightmares. The me.
But I'm also so scared of the man; the real. His whiskey voice. His light eyes and perfect teeth. His hard hands. His stare. His laugh. His grunts. His thick hands. This monster has done so much damage. I'll never forget his freckles. I'll never forget him. The other monsters; under my bed, in my closet, amongst my head. They won't let me. No matter how hard I beg or how loud I scream. No matter how much I cry. I'll never forget this one. E v e r.
YOU ARE READING
Memories
PoetryThis is probably just gonna be a book full of sad memories to look back on my life. Like a journal that I post for everyone to read.
