My Cardboard Balcony

I'm counting monsters living under my bed. They've made a home for themselves between the lint and the shoe boxes full of postcards and marbles collected over time and collecting as much dust as the stuff in Father Time's beard. They drink tea brewed from snags and splinters in the carpet, all while poring through my abandoned scrapbooks and laughing at the photos of me with the bad haircut I sported from first grade to freshman year of high school.