A Cool Glass of Water Trumps The Monster

Its drool seeps into the carpet,
as I toss and turn on my mattress island.
Teeth gnash,
It roars, it kicks, it sulks.
It entreats me through its pointed teeth:
“You’re thirsty, please, step outside and get some water.”
It wants to snatch me by the skinny ankles.
The tentacles that creep up the bedposts are slimy, grey. Business grey.
Like its creator didn’t have the time for purple, or green, the color of movie monsters, children’s book monsters.
I step over the twisted tentacles of the nightmare,
I’m so very thirsty.