The light

I needed the light. I can usually write in the dark. When I was seven, my bedtime was seven, when I was eight it was eight, and so on. I was still Catholic then, so it took a long time to say prayers, and ask God to bless everyone and for eternity. I would squint under the blanket and write shitty poems about gothic, Catholic monsters outside the blanket that protected me. The real monsters didn’t have horns or wings or pointy tales. They had nice dispositions most of the time and their fists didn’t always hurt. Just at first.