I can tell when they’re coming, but it does me no good. Once I sense them, it’s too late. Impetuous, greedy, they consume me, digest me. I feel their bile in my veins.
Self is lost, all sense of it. Fragile, alone, I fear them and the enzymes of my fear dissolve me. They know. Hungerless, they prey upon me, agitated by my weakness. They possess me. They waste me. In demonic rage, they use me to destroy what I love most.
Trapped in their membrane with the bitter albumen of my despair, I am invisible. I am blue. I am wretched like they are. I have become what I fear most. I have become one of them.
I scratch and claw to find my freedom. In my futile attempt, I become their tool, the implement of their reckless rampage. Anger, hatred, violence, they march out of me in disorganized regiment, burning in effigy my very soul, leaving its scarred and hollow cadaver on public display, pecked by the carrion fowl of remorse.
When they’ve left me, I cry.
I tell myself I’ve emerged from the suffocation in their cocoon more beautiful than I was before. I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t feel free. All around me lie the shattered remnants of things I once held dear. I believe I’m no better than they are.
© 2013 Anne Schilde