the monster

for anyone who's ever mistaken their inner critic for the truth.

the monster lives in my head
not under my bed.
it wants my confidence for breakfast,
uses my peace of mind for mattress,
and pulls the blanket of doubt
tight across my chest.

it’s quiet when others are near,
but it sings when i’m alone.
a tune made of shame
and questions left open.

some days, i shrink to feed it.
some days, i dare to starve it.

and on the rarest days
i remember
it isn’t me.

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If you’re in the mood for more poetry:

midway

when it rains in Miami