The monsters in my head
argue with each other.
They don’t look like monsters.
Sometimes they are both well dressed men — white, dressed to the nines in Brooks Brother’s suits. One is bespectacled, the other with a trimmed beard. They argue with the eloquence of lawyers, each trying to talk the other into a corner.
Other times it’s a girl and a boy, at most 20 years old. Fresh faced and looking like they stepped right out of an urban outfitters catalog. They keep time with their quick witted back and forth, syncopating only to cut each other off, never to rest.
Today they are old, sharing coffee across an awkwardly proportioned table — too far for intimacy, but too close to for the hostility that puts a tension in the air so tight the spit that flies through their clenched jaws threatens to snap it. The words fall slowly from their mouths, carefully chosen and weighty. The heaviness in the room feels like it will crush my lungs.
I wish they wouldn’t look like this. Talk like this.
If this were a cartoon, one would be a devil and the other an angel. It would be easy to know who to listen to, who was “right”.
But from here I see no halo or horns. No seething evil or lofty virtuousness.
Just me and my two monsters.
Some days I let them argue, weighing their arguments like courtroom evidence. Other days I’m lazy and whoever speaks last speaks the truth. But most days I am tired. I shout at them to give me peace.