Monsters Are Waiting

There is a monster in my office. I can’t see him, but I feel him there. When I sit down, he pokes his cold purple talons into my brain and whispers horrible, monster things to me.

“You’re stupid.” He says.

“That story doesn't make any sense.” He sighs, curling his invisible lizard body in my lap and wrapping his slimy tail of doubt around me.

I’m lucky he let me come in this room at all today. He is possessive of his futon. Most days he keeps his force-field up. It is a heavy shield that snakes all through the house. It is filled with undone laundry and dirty dishes, with unchecked e-mails and phones calls that need to be placed. The strong center of this shield has a crest that reads “There must be something good to watch on TV.”

Though he’s not terrifying, because we’ve played together since we were young, I try to keep my distance. And there are days, when he runs out to get a quick cup of coffee, or his focus is shifted to encourage cat-on-cat violence, when I can sneak into my office and sit on my futon. I can work, if only for 10-15 minutes, until he finds me and tugs on my sweater or pinches my neck. Telling me to get out of this room and turn the sprinklers on.