There’s battle I need to fight, it isn’t: glamorous like the winx club or Bond, epic like 300, political like Julius Caesar, isn’t for a greater good or for love; it’s just me fighting everyday to get out of bed.
I stand under the shower, soap and shampoo myself, repeating, it’s going to be a good day, I don’t have to kill myself and or I don’t need to sulk or pity myself.
I stopped this at one point; didn’t have enough time to get through the day, was busy focusing between work, friends, interests and a special friend.
I’d started to play loud, happy music; danced while bathing and my demontors were easier to send screaming from the happier memories I’d been making. Then there were days when they got too close.
I sat at table with strangers, people who didn’t like me, and her. I did manage through, it’s OK because I’d get to spend time with her. She went out of the way and so did I to keep it, but it wasn’t easy and then time ran its course.
I’m not easy to deal with, not a pretty package, it’s a lot of work to be around me or worse, be friends with me, but I’m pleasant-ish, I think; so held on to it.
My demontors came back on the worst day possible day, and they made a bloody mess; it’s been months and I’m still busy scrubbing the floor and there’s a long way to go. There are days I’m irritable, very super annoyed, waiting to dive in and drink blood, and other days I’d sulking or cutting and breaking things.
One such day, I told her. Told her how vulnerable I feel, how insecure I am, in my own silly, childish, stupid way; it was very immature but I had to say it before I blew up and so I did. She wasn’t happy about it, and put everything to an end; “You know what? I’m ending this. Bye.”
Now she’s a fading, happy, memory.


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