The Loneliness Monster

by | Sep 6, 2017 | Poetry

For Elizabeth

requires nothing


like a dog

begs for more

until every glass

start singing

but it turns

your movements

your hair becomes

will feed it

to a friend

hate her a little

it’s started again

sorry puppet

your jaw

ravenous waiting

with emptiness

almost ask it

nip at your ankles

taut leash

first halt

hates bees

like a dog

vomits on your shoes

sucks milk

is dry

or at least

cakes your skin

become monstrous

wild like its

while you’re gone

who can’t have any

stupid infertile bitch

it’s put on

stuffing your face

an aching drawbridge

for the house


to wake up

push you down

your paces align

then heel

prefers empty hives

eats too fast

licks it up

from solitude’s straws

so you think it might

fall asleep

to mud

like it

mind no one

you can’t lend it

it makes you

what are you saying

your skin now

with nothing

it won’t shut

to flood

until you choke

to have something

on the floor

you learn

then stay

The Loneliness Monster by Amie Whittemore

Photo used under CC.

About The Author


Amie Whittemore is the author of the poetry collection Glass Harvest (Autumn House Press) and co-founder of the Charlottesville Reading Series in Virginia. Her poems have appeared in The Gettysburg Review, Sycamore Review, Smartish Pace, Cimarron Review, and elsewhere. She teaches English at Middle Tennessee State University.