You used to tell me tales
woven with your fingertips,
dancing with electric excitement,
of monsters and of
the women who foolishly loved them.
You were abstract in your explanations
but concrete in your definitions.
I knew not what to expect when I heard monsters.
(I believed them to have fangs and beady eyes.)
No one ever told me they were beautiful,
often broken, creatures who just desired
a hand to hold, a head to bash in.
I carry ghosts in my heart
and bruises in my memory.
You with your fingertips dancing,
your eyes bright with fear and hope,
never told me monsters don’t hide under my bed,
but exist in the hearts of men.