by Pratyusha Nagavarapu
So I conjure it up. I discovered that I make it up.
In my head, as the demons take me over I realize this face was wrong, and it was me;
I drew it wrong.
This isn't the face of my monster, and neither is this, nor this
and definitely not this.
Deconstructing it, I realize that the face matters, and it doesn't,
and then it isn't the blood it spilt, nor the war it caused
and it doesn't stop at the pain it caused, it is so much more
so who is it? where is it? what is it? is it--
what is it, and there is black, it doesn't say, it doesn't answer back
and it has no smell, nothing to it but this unknown hole, a hole I fill
to my surprise there is me, for sure, and what else? where am I? What is here
and I can't see, and it isn't. It simply isn't. It isn't there.
So I conjure it up. Because I can't see it, because I can't taste it
I make it up as I go, this monster under my bed.