I wouldn't say my demons are my friends.
I don't invite them to parties or
look for them in the mirror.

But tormenting has become natural, second nature,
me.
And after a long day in the sun,
I always return to their ragged claws and ***** paws.

They scratch at my skin until I bleed and cannot sleep.
Scars cover my body but what...what would I be without them?
How could I dare spend a night without dragging nails across my throat?

They are not my friends.

But I listen anyways for the tapings behind the wall.
But I don't nurse my wounds.
But I don't fight the when they reach out.
But I like the color of my blood.

My demons aren't my friends, but neither am I.