The Personal Demon

Prose Poetry

It lurks over your shoulder. Image made by the author in Canva using free-to-use images.

She haunts me. Day, night, awake, asleep. There is no escape. She quiets, but she has yet to leave me. Her whispers tickle my ear, sending shivers of dread prickling down my neck, arms, and core, gnawing at me until I’m just bones.

Her favorite weapon, so versatile, stills my motions and deflates me. Fast and deadly or slow and neverending.

Sometimes a slow taunting cloying drawl. “Are you sure about that… dearie?” A dagger to my stomach. Or…

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” A sniper’s bullet to my heart.

In the great scorecard of my life, her side is full of tally marks versus my scant marks. Defeating me time and time again, erasing a time, if there ever existed one, where the outcome was any different. Or the true secret, if she had ever not been with me.

But sometimes, I can trick her, mock her, deflate her a little.

“Are you sure about that, dearie?” I retort.

She doesn’t like that, when I yank the weapon and point it back at her.

I reload and dive straight in. I prove her wrong, each motion a sword slash, a fired shot, driving her back. A single battle is often arduous, but I’ve learned a secret.