The worst bit

You know, when it comes to being in love with you, the worst part is not the fact that I know you will never love me back. Or the fact that I have no idea why my feelings are still so strong for you. Or that I have to see you frequently and pretend that to me you are just another friend.

The worst part is you seeing me so goddamn vulnerable, helpless. The fact that you see me breathless after walking a significant distance, that you feel compelled to carry me across a certain place when it seems I can’t manage alone. When you help me push my wheelchair if I seem to have my arms full. When I’m having a panick attack.


That is the worst thing about being in love with an athletic, active, good looking guy like you. The fact that you may feel sorry for me. That is messed up. What kind of girl would want to appear at her weakest in front of the guy she likes? I desperately wish to look glamorous in front of you. At least a bit graceful.

But. You know. I can’t. And that is sad

Daddy, there’s a monster under my bed

There’s a monster in my house
It’s in the kitchen
The sofas
It ambles around the living room
It watches tv with me and my mom
Surprisingly at ease with itself
Because no one seems to see it
No one but me
It comes to my room
Sleeps on my bed
And hugs me tight
Quite often it rears its head
at my parents
And bellows angrily
Shocking them
for they do not know
or see it
The monster is too large to contain now
Too mature to be tamed
Too old to chase away
Perhaps it will eat me one day
Finish me off finally
You wouldn’t know what happened
Only I see it