Overthinking.

Nyctophobia

Mamma taught me to find peace in the darkness,

To believe in angels, not demons.

She thought I'd retain what she taught me,

But when lights dim, peace is fiction.

Peace is a figment of her imagination.

Peace is dead.

I'd rather be dead

Than sit here in darkness,

Laying waste to my imagination,

Resurrecting my old demons.

I thought I convinced myself that they were fiction.

Turns out, they're alive, unlike me.

These demons know me.

They know my happiness in dead.

They know my strength is fiction.

They know I'm tired of fighting the darkness

that brings upon me my demons

that twists and burns my imagination.

Mamma taught me that monsters are just in my imagination,

That there is no way that they could hurt me.

Mamma said that angels fight off demons

and then make sure they're dead,

Which shows she does not know the darkness.

The monsters I see, mamma, are not fiction.

Oh, how I wish the dread I feel was fiction

or just in my imagination,

But my dread thrives in darkness,

Living like a parasite within me.

And it will feast until I am dead.

Then, I shall burn with demons.

Because, mamma, I cannot ignore my demons.

I cannot pretend they are fiction.

I cannot subdue my imagination.

The darkness will be the end of me,

'Cause I cannot end the darkness.

Mamma, the horror I go through is not fiction nor just in the depths of my imagination.

Maybe the angels you spoke of are scared of demons, like me.

And yet, every night, I am forced to lay halfway dead, in darkness.