the demons: a slam poem

Colorless polaroids,
Tinted black and white,
Playing like a film across a projector,
The demons and I having been dancing for a while now,
To the same old tune.
The feeling low and shutting down,
The feeling was all the same.
The demons caress me in their arms,
And tell me 'don't push us away.'
Maybe this time I won't,
Maybe this time I'll let them stay.
The demons hold me in their arms,
Tugging at my skin.
They push me,
They pull me,
They tell me,
That maybe– things would be a little better.
If I gave in.
I'm starting to believe,
In a sense of dark and collateral ways,
That maybe,
Just maybe.
I am the problem instead of a solution.

a.b.