Jina Kundu
The night is dead, the stillness echoes and haunts
You are scared of the monsters under your bed.
Your eyes are fixed on the ceiling of haunted shadows
There’s time till you see the light again.
You stretch out your fingers to reach the glass trembling to find another hand resting on the glass.
There’s a monster, it’s not under your bed anymore.
It’s sitting right next to your nightlamp hiding in the lightcast shadows.
Do you see it smiling at you? Do you smile back too?
Oh, but you’re too scared of the monsters, those damn ugly monsters.
Your daughter asks you who created the monster?
Rapscallion, you think. Your lips shiver, and you answer God.
She asks you again, why is the monster a monster?
You fail to answer her yet again.
You hear him dragging his feet, pushing the desk and making his way to you. Did you stop? Or did he stop?
You triple tap on your tab, you wish it was dead.
The lights in the room blind you, but not enough for you to look away from the shade.
Where is the monster now?
You think about your daughter.
When is the monster not a monster? When you love it or when you kill it?
Oh but you’re the God.
You’re the Athena who created Medusa, remember?