I hear voices in my head that guide my actions. I'm not crazy, I just like knowing somebody agrees with me.
Around the age of 10, these voices came to me in an attempt to make me forget about all my struggles. They were there through the thin of my lips to the thick of my Gluteus and stayed ever-present through the first feelings the spark of love.
And once that spark was extinguished and I began to shame my body, my voices calmed me and quelled the rising need to escape the gloom. They told jokes. And I laughed heartily, kissing my palm and placing it to my forehead as an offer of complete infatuation with the voices.
But it didn't remain that way. We began to argue in my mind, shifting my action into chaos as I began to realize that my brain had become a cave harboring a snake like a zoo. So I stopped listening.
I didn't want to hear them anymore, I wanted them to shut up.
But they never did.
At times, they would get very quiet just to yell at a rate to leave ringing in my ears, and I would cry at their pains.
By mid-puberty, I had grown accustomed to these shouts. I had even learned to ignore them. And most of the loud voices began to disappear.
But One remained, a single cage to my canary. A bite to my jugular and a constant reminder of the sickness I claimed in my mind.
He only came around when I was upset, and he’d always etch me into actions so regrettable that he didn’t realize affected him as well.
He wanted me to die.
For years I combatted him, cursing him into a withdrawal but then speaking up a weakness that would inspire his powerful words and presence again. Oh how mighty his power over me was.
His very voice sent chills through my spine and blood rushing through my veins. His tone turned my blackened skinned the color of used, sopping wet coffee grinds. The bite present in every consonant he uttered made my ears pop with unease as if the pressure grew under my eyelids.
He was my demon.
After my second attempt at love had fizzled he had been the one to tell me to slash that tire. He was the reason I bit Jamea’s lip and drew the taste of rich blood to my tongue hungrily as if vampiric. He was the reason I spent so many nights up crying in fear as I would chant “What’s happening” or “what am I doing”… or “why am I still here”
His counsel became sadistically acceptable, nearly sexually desired to me as the depth of his voice boomed with close proximity to my heart. I could feel the warmth of my body grip the chill of the air and I’d chuckle like a school girl.
This became my reality, a bubble of sadism sautéed with fear and drenched in disgust. He would addict me to the taste of blood, the color of death. He would introduce me to the feeling of pain and the emotion of anguish.
And I began to love it. I would press pen tips to my skin and draw the sweet nectar of my essence.

Of course, no one understands me. They say I need help.
Maybe they’re right
But every time my mind becomes aware of the hold from him, he soothes me with box cutters and cuddles in the warmth of my skin’s openings.
I’m in love with his deception and his truth. I love the life he has given me and never again will I complain when I hear
the voices