Nurture.

I am chilled to the bone. I feel the cold night slice me into many forms. I am almost certain it has frozen over the outside of my muscles, but I am quaking with the desire to cut the demons from my skin.

The tap is lifted but there is no sense of epiphany, only cold spreading over my skin like melted butter over toast, ready to be eaten. There is no sense of epiphany. There is only a dull throbbing somewhere deep in my head and it is only deep because it is clouded by spineless thoughts.

The warm water is inviting, like kneading hands coaxing blood from my hands. That is what you have been doing anyway. I am positive my lifeline is flowing to the bathroom floor, in its wake, soap, to wash the grime off my fingers, under my nails. I feel like I have killed so many times.

The moment I shut my eyes, I feel it. Kaleidoscopes tucked under my lids, residence of a baby doll, or glowing eyes of a grinning creature. I wait patiently to feel a hand trail down my back or reach into my hair between my own hands. I feel the tap press into my back, like a rotting hand sewn into the upholstery of a car seat. The water turns chilly, and the chill runs down my spine.

If monsters don't live under my bed

If monsters don't live in my closet

If monsters live inside

What does that make me?

My pen writes me hauntings and runs out of blood before I do. They say that there will be light in times of darkness, but light is the one to give me shadows. The end of the tunnel leaves me with the shadow of a swinging arm, reaching out to caress me, when

I realise you are the demon and I had prepared a room for you in me.