pollution of the self

and I cannot control the demons
they claw at my heart, and beat my mind
“they will disappear, all of them,” they whisper,
“another lost heart, another scar to carry.”

the smallest part that disagrees with them
is being strangled in irons by the rest that concedes
to pass the time,
just to pass the time.

my heart prepares for breakage,
when there is none coming
and I refuse to self-fulfill any grief
that my demons ready for me

but by the gods,
it fucking hurts.