I sleep with demons.

Sometimes they’re so faint, I forget they’re near.

I don’t carry them on my shoulders like I used to though, instead they’re infatuated with the idea of making cameos. They have their own agent, make their own schedules, take 2 hour lunches.

They’re scum. 

They can feel when I’m soft, calm, warm. They can feel when I’m melting into comfort, that’s when they come. That’s when they know they’ll really leave an impression. I’m not surprised or even upset when they come. I do however cry, because the feeling of defeat is overwhelming. 

Imagine thinking you’ve killed something, only to have it resurrect over and over again. 

I’m one of millions. 

I’m not special. 

I was born.

I grew up.

In-between, some fucked up shit happened. 

I kept growing.

More fucked up shit.

Patterns.

Patterns.

Patterns.

Then one day, you see it like a mathematical equation and try a new method. An easier method. One that doesn’t require so much erasing, so much of everything.

Confidence swells, and your ego and pride get fed, not much, just a snack, something that satiates, and you feel like a savage. You’ve pilfered these demons, they’re dead. Gone. Butchered. 

Only.

They’re not. 

They’re the cockroaches of the subconscious. 

They will outlive me, I’m positive of it. 

So I get dressed, write down these words, and hope that this delicious ‘May gray’ lasts a little longer.

You have to trust the void.

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