trashed
Hyla Levy
this where he hid, the grinning bogeyman under the bed, the one your parents said wasn’t there, after they squatted down and looked, and told you with a reassuring voice “Nothing to see down there,” and they were almost right, because the bogeyman they looked for was a monster, not the bogeyman who concealed himself among the bedsprings, not the one who carefully, slowly, meticulously plucked away the unnecessary threads, one by one, to create this unseen installation.
how could they have known, your parents, how could they possibly have known, the bogeyman wasn’t a monster at all, not at all, how could they have known the bogeyman under the bed was an artist?
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