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.