Writing Prompt! "Write about the monster(s) under the bed."

They hate. Hate driven by fear. 

They are afraid. They are afraid of me.

The run and pick their feet up, assuming I am frightening, terrifying even. Assuming I am here to do nothing but harm them. 

Are they aware of the cold nights when I crawl out to cover their shivering body with a blanket?

Are they aware of the sleepless night we share, listening to music as the sounds of the world seep in through the window?

Are they aware of the nights where I listen to them cry, thinking they’re alone in the world though they have me?

Are they aware of the late nights spent with the same longing shared between us, the longing to have someone⎯anyone?

I reside beneath them. It is the only place I belong. I am not allowed outside, for the world fears the idea of me existing.

The world does not fear me in the same way they fear each other. 

The world does not fear me. The world fears the concept of me, for they have never even tried to meet me.

They call me a monster, yet I am not even real.