Demons

There are demons that I have to fight on my own. Most days, they never stop whispering malicious things: like how I will never be good enough for the world because I will never be good enough for my mother; like no matter how hard I try, I will always fail.

They tell me, every day, that I am unlovable, that I am not worth anything, that my darkness is too much, too consuming, to handle.
Most days, I tune them out.
I couldn't do that today.
I can't... I can't do it anymore. I am at the point of my life where I am ready and willing to succumb to the blade of the guillotine that has been set above me since I turned 8. I cannot keep trying and trying and just see the same look of disdain and disappointment in my parents' eyes. I can't keep crying myself to sleep at night. I am too tired to fight.
I can't be vulnerable and strong at the same time. I can't let anyone in without them being scared of whatever monster has taken root within my soul. I cannot shut the demons up, not anymore.
The rain clouds are coming back, and I have no more stories to tell, no more faith, trust, pixie dust. There's no more naivete to spare. It's all just ashes and bones, and cracked skulls and spilled blood... And me, crying on the bathroom floor at two in the morning, trying to swallow the spine-racking sobs so that no one in my family wakes up.

Void

I really do not understand
How I can be so sad
For days at a time,
For months,
And years,
And still have enough tears
To soak through pillows,
To fill up oceans,
To drown my sorrows.
I do not understand
How I can look at you
And think about leaving,
Think about disappearing,
Think about ending it all.
I do not understand
How you can still love me,
This mess of bones,
This empty shell,
This ember-less pit,
This desolate plain,
This souless void,
This haunted ghost.
I do not understand
Why I must keep fighting,
Why I must keep trying,
When I have prayed,
For years,
For it all to end.
I am tired,
My bones,
My muscles,
My lungs,
My heart,
My mind,
I am tired.
Make it end.

Selfish

My mother calls me selfish.

All the time.

Because I refuse to do what she wants me to, because I have already begun to put myself first, because I refuse to now please the crowd she puts before me.

My mother calls me selfish because I do not like being the only one assigned to watch over unruly cousins whose father does not know how to parent.

My mother calls me selfish because I would rather be at work than be at a family gathering.

My mother calls me selfish because I would rather be treated like an adult human being than the perfect robot she wants me to be.

My mother calls me selfish because I don't give her the answers she wants to hear.

My mother calls me selfish because I know how to stand up for myself now.

My mother calls me selfish because I would rather be alone than go out to the dining room and have a conversation with her, where I know that everything I say can and will be used against me in her own rule of court.

My mother calls me selfish because I'd like to be asked what I want to do, how I feel, what I think, every once in a while.

My mother calls me selfish because now that I'm 23 and can't be bossed around, it's all she can hang against me.

My mother calls me selfish because I stopped caring when I turned 20; because I realized it won't matter, I will never be good enough.

My mother calls me selfish because I am, I guess. I don't really care.