The Monster

Twisted, sick, and disturbing
Is the story I'm about to tell.
This is a story of Annie's memories
of a childish demented Hell??..

Annie feared nine-'o-clock
Because her mom would leave home.
And leave her precious baby
Unprotected and alone.  

When her mom left the house
And begun to leave for work
The Monster was about
And beginning to lurk.

A little past nine
The monster could wait no more.
The Monster would turn off the lights
And made sure to lock the door.

Awake in her bed
She pretends to be asleep.
Listening to the hallway
And the footsteps that would creep.

And sure enough
She would hear the sound
Of the Monster's feet
As they hit the ground.

From underneath her covers,
Annie would pray
That the Monster wouldn't see her
And continue on it's way.

She prayed she could be a bird
And fly way in the sky.
She would leave in a heartbeat
And never say good-bye.

She prayed that her soft teddy bear
That she got for her seventh birthday last year
Would turn into a beautiful angel
And take her far away from here.

But it never helped her
To hide and to pray.
Because the Monster would come
And hurt her anyway.

But still she crossed her fingers
And kept on hoping
That the Monster would forget her
And the door wouldn't open.

That didn't help either
Because the doorknob would turn
And all her hopes and prayers
Would fade away and burn.

As the Monster would slowly come in
And climb into bed
Annie kept thinking
That she wish she was dead.

Her face, her chest, and her legs,
There's not place her wouldn't touch.
And he never listened when she screamed,
"Please! Daddy stop! It hurts too much!"

Two years later ,
When she ten,
She decided she's had enough
And this must come to an end.

So one night, a little after nine
Annie lie in her bed dying and itching
To see the look on daddy's face when he finds out
There's a knife missing from the kitchen.

                 -February 20/ 2001

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Rebecca Sherman's picture

Wow. That was really, really good. I think that happens to too many girls (including me). Not necessarily by their dads. It's just most don't have the courage (can you call it courage at such a young age?) to pick up a knife.

Christine Mullane's picture

Wow. Amazing, touching, beatiful. A truly great poem.