What The Whispers Stole

I remember the first time the Demons in my head whispered.
Then it was just a matter of giving in.
And willingly I did.

The Whispering Demons etched shallows lies across my mind, and they buried truths with the self love I had long ago abandoned.

I remember the times my past self hung her head, ashamed.
Ashamed as she pressed steel to pulsing veins. Ashamed that she didn't possess the backbone to actually draw crimson on the smouldering canvas, the charred remains that were her.

In a matter of time I had ripped out the person inside of me, she with the glint in her eyes and upturned corners of her lips, and I twisted her into something cruel and unyielding. Out of fear of being vulnerable. Fear of being lost.
Only the more I tried to find myself again.
Find her again.
The further away I ended up.

The loss resonates in the pit of my very being, in the splinters of the soul that I shattered. No. That the Whispers shattered.
Everything I am and was came to a crashing crescendo.

Not yet the finale.

Choking on the sum of my flaws and all it cost the people I came to love, those misfortunate enough to be the object of my attentions.
Most of all,
What it cost me.

They hadn't the right to take the last choice away.
The last choice that was truly and solely mine.
The choice and that I clung to with warped sanity.
The feeling of steel kissing my wrists with ice born lips,
Or the feeling of scratchy rope constricting my scream,
The feeling of blood clotting in my veins,
The feeling of my heartbeat slowing in its cage of ivory,
But they did.
The Whispers in my mind took it away.

They said that the pain would chase away the fear and the haze, the shroud that enveloped me in all dark walks of my twisted and resented sustenance.
That pain would chase away the malevolent thoughts of,
The sharp sting of metal on skin,
The pulsing song of red on silver,
The searing burn of salt tracks,
The inexorable hysteria of giving in.
It circled my mind. A mantra. Over and over again.
I could never promise myself a last time or a way out,
because they stole the choice away.
They said all of it would eventually give way to a Phoenix from flames and ash.
A Phoenix new and clean.
A Phoenix for the finale.

It didn't.

It never did.

It only ever unhinged me further.

The primal roar of self pity and despondency that tore itself form the core of my very existence,

Brought
Mountains
To
Their
Knees.

Mind reeling and whirling.
Dipping and hurtling into the blood pooling at the corpse of who I used to be.
Hollow eyes reflected in the fractured remains of the mirrors I'd turned around, now, unable to look away from the cracked sculpture I no longer remembered carving and the wieght of the choices I'd made, jarring my soul, as I sold it away.

Even the Devil and his Angels turned away.

Now the Whispers revell in the slow-burning agony of my realisation.
For I have written them,
and now they'll never die when I'm dead.