Lying in bed, hearing a noise
👹
My overactive imagination is working overtime
👺
I’m in a universe of trouble
👻
I don’t know what to do
👽
Feeling the drool soaking my bed
🧌
I know they’re all around me
👾
Monsters coming from every dimension possible
☠️
Each wanting to feed on me
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I can smell their sulfur scent
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As they circle all around me
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Waiting for my eyes to open
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Then they’ll drag me to hell
About the Creator
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More stories from Mother Combs and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaa day ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart3 days ago in Fiction
Comments (13)
Well-wrought! When I was a kid, my mom told me something that changed me in the most positive way. She told me I could fight the monsters in my nightmares... and I did! It was like she gave me permission to become the hero in my own story. Though you may not have intended it, I thank you for reminding me, and though it may not necessarily be my place, I should like to permit others to do the same, even if only in spirit!
Scary! Sure glad I don't remember any scary dreams.😉
I feel this one, and know it all too well! You definitely described a frightening and all too real reality here, really well done!
oh, that's creepy. Well done.
Oof, that’s some spine-chilling stuff! The monster vibes are real, and you totally nailed that!
I remember those nights as a kid when I felt exactly this way. Luckily most real monsters are human …
This is breathtaking! So creepy ✨
Terrifying and amazing! Great job!
This was soooo creeeppppyyyy! Loved it!
What do you used for your cover picture?
This is good one. Very visual imagery
:O That was kinda scary!!!!! (but great!)
Yep! Can’t stand night terrors. You nailed it!