I don’t know what to title this piece of writing.
It feels like a suicide note, but there’s no way it could possibly be such a thing.
But I do hate the demon.
The DEMON.
Always lurking.
Maybe it’s a homicide note.
DEMON must die.
Doesn’t make sense.
It’s inside me.
It is me.
I made it.
It’s mine.
So what do I do?
There’s a certain pain to it.
Like a sickness.
Chronic.
Always there.
Always lurking.
Sometimes fine.
Sometimes nasty.
Sometimes nastier than most.
So, how then?
Who then?
What do I do, then?