Befriend your monsters.
Go deep in your closet, way back in the dark,
and pull out the scariest stuff (scariest to you),
and put it on. Wear your shadow.
(Otherwise it will choke you.)
Rummage, and find the anger of a murderer,
the bloody ax. Hold it. Feel its heft.
There’s the scarves and masks of secret affairs,
the double agent costume of betrayals and untruths.
Go ahead, try them on. They fit.
There are monster outfits, the fangs and claws
of fear and envy and pride and greed,
oh, that big drooling bloody mouth of greed.
There’s the costume of the mad scientist,
wanting to take over the world,
the exhibitionist, longing to be seen,
the hunchback of self-doubt,
the addict, just not wanting to deal with it,
the prostitute subservient to other’s desires,
giving away what’s deeply yours
to get what you already have.
Oh, you look better in that than you wish.
And here: here’s the old, decrepit skeleton,
the strengthless, fleshless fingers, yes yours,
with maggots in the eye holes.
Put it on, and lie face down in the dust.
And don’t just give the mirror a glimpse of these.
Show the neighborhood your monsters.
Parade down the street. Tag along
with the little princesses and superheroes,
the astronauts and little miss RBG,
so cute, so innocent, who know better,
who will forgive you,
who will take your bloody hand
and walk with you
all the way home.