The Next Round

I never checked under the bed.
kids do that—wide-eyed, whispering,
clutching blankets like cheap shields.

me?

I know better.
I kill the lights and leave the bottle half-dead on the nightstand,
its mouth still open, waiting.

the real bastard lives right here,
behind the ribs,
gnawing my liver like yesterday’s steak.

I tried starving him once—
cold turkey, black coffee,
long walks in the rain
that only left me craving a cigarette
and a warm body to forget with.

but he’s a hungry beast. ignore him and he shows teeth.
so I feed the son of a bitch:
cheap whiskey that claws going down,
a woman that tastes like ten minutes of mercy,
white lines on a cracked mirror
promising tomorrow won’t feel like this.

he laughs while I’m hugging the toilet at 3 a.m.,
whispers this is love, this is living,
this is the only honest damn thing left.

outside, the neighbors lock their doors,
check under the beds for shadows.
fools.

I never need to look under the bed.
I know exactly where the monster sleeps—
curled warm in my gut,
fat and smiling,
already licking its lips
for the next round.