My insecurities are tiny demons.
Demons that strangle and yell, flit and come back awake and asleep. They are like mice avoiding cats, but sharks to blood.
They do not care for reason or happiness, nor do they care in depression or grief. They tear my only worth apart like vultures, and I am forced to look.
Like abstract colors and forms they bear no meaning but their touch is corrosive and their words like pieces filling anxious puzzles.
They dance around and come back to me as they please, because
My insecurities are tiny demons