you still believe in monsters under your bed

There is a belief still widely kept that the observable universe is held together in the jaws of a serpent.
Imagine it: great raking coils moving thick as oil over the surface of everything—
the surface of you.
When it’s hot out, and you’re real tired, and maybe you’ve just had a crying fit or scraped your knees—
you can see it, wide as a church door or the gap under your bed.
There are monsters out there. So many that they blur over time. You start believing in ghosts, start believing in god and the power of crystals and all sorts of things that wind up
buried in your herb garden or tucked into a pillowcase and forgotten
in the same way you forget what you said and what was said to you.
It’s a stretch to let yourself become the sum of every telescope aimed at your heavens—
at your hells. It’s a stretch to be forgiven, to be seen,
except through the screen doors and gold silks of all you desired for yourself
once upon a time.
..
.
..
Some say, when pretending to be brave, that there is nothing beyond the self.
It’s tempting.
Tempting like a tail curls around the idea of an apple
and finds fangs wrapped in lips soft from the rotting and the
effort and the want for more.
Tempting to devour void upon void because there will always, always be more.
Always more hollow logs; more damp tinder; more empty mugs.
If there is a snake draped across all of space and time, it must get hungry too, heaving itself through fields of bright gaseous matter. It must be easy to slip whole species through the gaps in
those teeth.
.
You see, like the way a night unzips itself for you in a roar, like
all your gems spread in a tarnish across your bed,
that there is a tender want for absence in every gap you fill. You are a soft decline,
waltzing down a string of moons towards polished woods
waiting to embrace everything you are,
expanding as a star.
There is a blankness to your desperate breath, crawling with words as it is,
and it is patient and long as the dawn.
It is inconsolable, it is the most infectious thing you’ve ever seen,
and it is beautiful to behold:
the deep, dark sleep you breed in the midst of things—
loud as history,
big as light,
careful as searching scales over an endless sight.
—  autobiography by charlie quinn