Monster of Light

Some nights I dig through old notebooks

like a raccoon in the trash,

pulling out phrases that still smell like smoke.

I don’t know why I keep the worst ones.

Maybe they keep me.

There’s a version of me

hiding between the coffee stains and margin doodles,

the one who spoke before she edited,

laughed too loud at the wrong time,

loved people who didn’t even look up.

I call her reckless,

But that’s just my polite word for honest.

She writes “I want more” in the corner

and I cross it out, twice,

Like that will make the wanting go away.

Therapists say “inner child”

But she’s not that sweet.

She swears, rolls her eyes at my spreadsheets,

kicks off her shoes on freshly cleaned floors.

I’m terrified she’ll take over,

But secretly I leave the door unlocked.

When the lights are off

and the phone finally stops buzzing,

I feel her breathing just under my skin,

bright and impatient,

a small, stubborn sun

waiting for me to stop apologizing

and just let her burn.