In Memoriam

As I stare into the darkness
a thousand thoughts tear through my mind. 

Why did I do it?
Am I sick?
Depraved?
Is it genetics?
Is it even my fault?
Or just a stupid mistake of youth?

A single line echoes in my ears
"And my demons are my angels." 
And I close my eyes
remembering why
I once said that line. 

Somewhere deep inside me
I found the strength to love my demons, 
but that doesn't mean they love me back. 
And I live for the pain they inflict, 
the beautiful, glorious pain. 

I'm not afraid of falling asleep, 
no, I'm afraid of my own mind. 
And yet, here I am, 
gazing into the darkness
and pondering the whispers
that echo in my head. 

I should be guilty, it's good I feel guilty. 
It means I'm human, 
it means I've changed, 
because I didn't feel guilty back then. 
I should've felt guilty. 
I did a terrible thing
and I deserve to feel guilty. 

I light a candle, its soft glow piercing the darkness, 
and move in front of my mirror, 
assessing the girl who stares back at me. 
Is she the face of a girl consumed by her demons?
Is she even human, or is she a monster?
I can see the darkness swirling beneath her skin. 

Whenever I let my memories out of their boxes, 
they scream and rage at me, and I let them. 
They demand payment, demand my attention and my pain. 
They thirst for my blood and tears. 
They eat at me, devouring my flesh and bone. 
And I let them. 

My face is that of a quiet being, 
trapped in self-chosen silence. 
I used to talk and talk and talk, 
but now I'm quiet, because my words are violence. 
If I can hold my tongue and learn some kindness,
then perhaps, I might return from my silence. 
I was a predator once, like the rest of them, 
my friends. 
I had snapping jaws, 
had sharp, deadly claws. 
All meant for the hunt, to tear flesh apart. 
But when I fell silent, finally stopped and took pause, 
after all that time, I finally saw all the pain I'd caused. 

I know I deserve this pain. 
Otherwise I would've banished these memories years ago, 
instead of locking them up like caged animals, 
letting them rail against the bars
until they inevitably break free and wreak havoc. 

Bruises bloom like cherry blossoms
across my pale and formerly unmarked skin. 
Perhaps my outside is reflecting what's within. 
My blood is bleeding as my weapons of war turn internal.
Instead of unleashing them on innocent victims, 
I unleash them on myself. 

Yes, of course I argue with them, the roaring beasts, 
"I was just a kid, it's time to forgive." 
"It wasn't my fault, there's no reason for guilt." 
"I've already owned up to it." 
But it's impossible to win against yourself, 
and truthfully, these demons are a part of me. 
Their words aren't spoken in someone else's voice, 
their words are spoken in my voice. 
And so, in the end, all I can do
is relive each memory in vivid detail
and remind myself never to do any of it again. 
Because deep down I know, 
I deserve this pain for what I did. 

Every time I try to sleep, 
violent screams echo in my silent dreams. 
Knives made from the cacophony of sound
are harsh on my ears, 
and I bleed, yes, I bleed. 

My demons truly are my angels. 
The all-consuming guilt that pours over me
will purify me, will wash me clean. 
My sins are burned into my memory, 
and I MUST atone for them. 
Now, I take my moments of happiness
and I let it all pour out into everyone else's cup, 
I wear my heart on my sleeve
and the fabric is stained red
from all the blood that I bleed. 

Sometimes I fight back
against the demons that reside in my head. 
Sometimes, I don't. 

I call them demons when I fight,
angels when I give in. 
I call them beasts when I lock them up, 
and executioners when they escape. 
I call them ghosts when they're quiet, 
but call them wolves when they howl loudly. 

I gaze out the window, 
back away from the mirror. 
The silky darkness is spotted with stars. 
Perhaps I have stars inside me,
but right now, all I can feel
is the inky darkness.