I sit here in this empty church; prayer won't help me this time.
A demon not of Hell, but of me, haunts me to this day.
I don't know what wrought it. Its face is horribly disfigured, as is my heart. My spirit. My soul.
It has long fingers, easy to drape around my throat, before cutting off my airflow. I cannot speak.
I pray to God for the thing to leave, but I know He cannot help me in this. It was not His creation, but my own.
