Judgmental Dwarf
When I wake up in the morning,
I see a mean old dwarf hovering over me.
He’s chubby with a long white beard,
And he wears denim overalls and a purple hat.
“You are very ugly right now,” he says.
His beady black eyes cut into me.
“You should get out of bed,” he says.
As I brush my teeth,
He leans in close on the counter top,
His wrinkled face inches from mine.
“Your teeth are slightly yellow,” he says.
I make a bowl of fruit loops cereal,
And he examines it closely.
“What a lazy unhealthy breakfast,” he says.
His beard dips in the milk.
“Your cereal is hairy now,” he says.
“That’s disgusting.”
He sits in the passenger seat
While I drive to school,
His feet barely reach the seat’s edge.
“You left your blinker on,” he says.
“You drive like an old person.”
At school, he sits in the desk next to me,
Peering over at my exam scantron.
“Those answers are mostly wrong,” he says.
“You did not study enough, did you?”
I talk to a girl at a coffee shop,
And he cranes his neck to listen
Nearly tumbling out of his chair.
“You’re not very witty,” he says.
“She’s not going to have sex with you.”
At home, I curl up with a book to read.
He looks at the book’s title,
Licking his teeth and pursing his lips.
“That book received poor reviews,” he says.
“You have terrible taste in literature.”
As I fall asleep, he sits on my chest,
Listing my negative personality traits
And insulting my physical appearance.
Days pass, then weeks, then months,
And I stop getting out of bed in the morning.
I hide under the sheets and plug my ears.
I try to ignore the dwarf,
But I can feel his weight on my chest.
He’s waiting for me to do something,
Waiting for a glimpse of my face,
Waiting to judge me.
