Monsters Under The Bed

My little sister means the world to me.

She’s ten years old and she loves her pets,

playing dress up, and cooking.

Oh how she loves to cook.

She can make a delicious dish out of anything.

It kills me that I can never taste it.

 

That’s got to be the worst part of having an eating disorder.

Not the cold chills,

or the yellow nails,

not even the occasional hunger pangs

from when I do screw up and eat.

 

The worst part is that

my sister never gets to have me taste her

“super-choco-tastic” cookies.

The worst part is

not being able to go run and play with her.

The absolute worst part is

having to hear her pray

at night that I don’t die,

and seeing her cry during my

ever-so-frequent doctor's visits.

 

There’s always one thing

I can look forward to, though.

When we get home and she’s all settled in bed,

I check her room for monsters.

In the closet,

behind the door,

under the bed,

everywhere.

She doesn’t believe in monsters anymore,

but I’ve always done it,

and we always get a kick out of it.

 

That’s why when she whimpered

that she she saw a monster under her bed

I was surprised.

One of the most admirable things

about my little sister is that

she’s so brave,

so seeing her that way came as a shock.

I checked under the bed,

and realized she was right,

there was a monster under that bed.

It was staring me right in the face


...and that’s why I’ve always hated mirrors.

This poem is about: 
Me

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