Demons
Demons aren't red or black or grey
with a burnt face and slimy nostrils.
They look like this, they look like this.
Crickets sound like rattlesnakes,
and house-lizards seem to grow
large wings and swoop like dragons
upon my uncovered fragile head.
My head itches and itches until
I paint my nails red with blood
oozing out of that helpless dry scalp.
My weight goes up up and up,
and the bed begins to creak
as my heavy bones toss and turn.
This time, I know it will break.
A nasty cyst under my skin grows
into an unforgiving mass of pus
and blood and all things yuck.
A scratched elbow with little signs
of fungal infection gets big enough
To smother people's eyes with disgust.
The stretchmarks without pregnancy
On a flabby tummy, and a bouncy butt
begin to show from over thick layers
Of coats, clothes and concealers.
Demons aren't red or black or grey
with a burnt face and slimy nostrils.
They look like this, they look like this.
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