Demons
I teetered precariously along the edge of a glistening blade, a breath from a fall as much chance as grace keeping me from a stumble, yet it seemed that hope was such a cruel trick and love was laced with disappointment. Why not fall and be opened against the blade, split twain between defeat and the relief that only closure can grant.
Yet either side I spied, as I'd conjure what courage I could to glance, a beast circling waiting form me to fail so that they may rend my flesh. One born of hate, vitriol dripping from his fangs like a venom intent on corrupting the flesh of my heart. Claws with a reek of rotten flesh, a stench it was proud of, it seemed to feel it earned it, somehow vindicating it self with the suffering that every sinew of his from was born of.
The other side of the blade fear promised me my end, a blackness in his eyes that seemed to absorb all but the last of hope, that seemed to steal the very breath from my lungs. His hair matted by misery and despair, where all ventures not realized, be it romance or art, were another dread lock on his coat like jewel in his dank crown.
Hate was gnashing just out of reach, fear poised and ready to pounce, and a look east and west the blade stretched beyond sight with only the void to give it any context. A call, a cry even to know that I was not alone met only by snarl of fear and furious howl of hate.
Teetering, paralyzed but not wanting to slip into the void of the jaws of the beasts below, and seeing nothing else. Only my demons to keep me company; seen in the face of everything I wanted to love, I could not tell if it were love and hope that were the illusion or the darkness that was consuming me that was.
Exhausted, I stared into the eyes of terror, ready to give in, thinking of what words you give such a beast to congratulate it in its victory, and I saw the fear for what its was. Not poised but cowering at something I had not seen. Hate too, gnashing not at my heals but the phantom born of its own reflection in the glistening blade.
Armed with this revelation that they are born of themselves, that hate has an all consuming hate of its self and fear in likeness. I muster what courage I could and slid from the blade that had been my home for so long. The blade now in hand, casting on them their reflection, I drove them to their cages, despite their lashes and gnashes, snarls and spit, claws and jaws. To their cages I took them, and with what strength I could, closing them in, with each other for company or feast. Yet even in this moment of defiance I had not the courage to close the lock, too scared that even a scratch would corrupt me and take me back to balancing on the blade.
Their boon and bane; Single in mind those beasts, when they have the strength it is jeers and threats, trying with arm and claw to reach me, yet not the composure to check the lock, and when their strength fades the retreat and whimper about how unfair their existence is, cowering as if seeing them inflicts actual pain.
In truth I do not understand why I visit my demons still, a dangerous game perhaps, maybe gambling or gloating. Be certain though, caged as they are, I am not immune to their threats and jeers, but now I do see hope and love for what they are, which is abundant and nearly as unrelenting as their counterparts.