Letters from Zoie

I have a monster, but I am not one.

There’s a monster inside me.

I feel her.

In my chest,

my stomach,

my bones.

But I refuse to believe

she is me.

The pain, the numbness—

they are not my essence.

They are visitors..

Parasites.

Thins that grew in the dark,

but did not begin as me.

Sometimes,

I feed her.

Small offerings of harm,

of destruction,

of old habits I promised to outgrow.

Just enough to make her shift,

ease the pressure she puts on my spine.

She hums when I give in.

Groans when I push her back down.

She coils around my heart,

like smoke,

like shadow,

like hunger.

She waits.

She whispers.

let me out. let me be seen.

And on my worst days—

when it’s just me,

the bed,

and the ache—

I do.

I let her crawl closer to the surface.

I let her breathe.

I let her scream.

But only for a moment.

Because real life knocks.

And I force her down again.

She’s angry.

She’s patient.

She always waits.

But still—

I resist.

I have a monster.

Maybe a few.

But I am not one.

With love,

Zoie