All of us have demons that darken our days on occasion. Some of us have learned how to stab them in the heart and demand their silence for long periods of time. Some of us shove them in closets and pretend they aren’t there. Some of us sit huddled with our demons, staring them in the eyes, mesmerized by the power they hold over us and the messages they continuously whisper.
Obviously, I keep my demons close. I know the silky lure of their voice as they gain my attention. I know the coarse shrill of their desperation when they fear I will not give in. I taste the stench of their intentions upon my tongue, intermingling with the blood from biting back my words. I’ve observed how their caress upon my cheek can be soothingly warm but their clawed grasp upon my throat suffocates me of all will. They work black magic upon my perceptions, skewing the most mundane of observations. Their greatest trick is turning me from a strong-willed, independent woman into a worthless puppet dangling from tangled truths.
What I despise most is that I’m under no illusion. I am acutely aware of their presence and their power. And yet, I keep my sword sheathed. I won’t wield it against these agents of evil upon my life. Instead, I allow them to sit at my dining table and invite them to feast on me as if they were lovers.