Monster’s masks sometimes slip.
Giving away at glimpse at their true selves behind the starched shirt and well-knotted tie, or pursed lips and understanding eyes. However, this is the rarest of sometimes, and beyond this peek, we know nothing of their inner lives.
Bland and boring and bad with crowds.
The drapes we draw sometimes let the sun in. Rooms brightening against our soul’s constant hangover. Hiss and moan, and crawl across the floor, shielding your eyes to slam them shut. But outside you see another looking in, trying to understand.
As if they could, from behind their own mask.