Demons

By Chahat Kansal

I feel like I’m stuck in my head, stuck in my bed.

It’s night when the bed has a heart, and it rises from the dead.

They crawl in my ear and whisper things—

Things so painful to hear that I bleed my eyes out,

But the blood I bleed is as white as fear.

I hate nights because the demons come alive,

Yet I never want to admit that the demons hug me tight—

Tight enough to squeeze the oxygen from my lungs,

But not tight enough for me to die.

I hate it, but I think that’s what I crave every night—

A hug tight enough to take my life.

I try to break free, but I can’t. They are too strong,

And I don’t know self-defense.

But a part of me knows that if I want to, I can.

What scares me is—I don’t want to,

Because I know no one can hug me as tight as they can.

They trace my body, every inch of me, but stop at my heart.

I think even they don’t like it beating in the cage I have.

They skip that part.

They reach my brain and play with it, filling it with lies.

I believe them—because I’m too dumb and shy.

I want to fight them, tell them they lie—

But deep inside, I know they’re right.

They reach my neck and choke it until I can’t breathe,

Then release me, letting me feel the plea—

My plea to God to set me free.

They trace every inch of my body until I beg to be free.

But when they finally leave, I’m left with this feeling so empty,

I almost want them to return.

But when they do, I beg them again to let me go.

By Chahat Kansal