Behind the Closed Door

Your demons come out

“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.” — Paulo Coelho

A poem

There’s a fork in the road, and I’m unsure which direction to walk.

Left? Right? Wrong?

Do I follow my heart? My mind? My intuition?

The door closes itself softly — I didn’t even hear it, but I saw it.

And I can see the shadows of the demons walking on the other side.

So do I run?

Do I open the door?

Do I wait depressingly on the other side, merely waiting for the demons to leave?

I’m torn.

I’m sick.

I’m confused.

I’m tired.

I’m filled with sorrow.

I can’t leave yet. But I know I mustn’t stay, either.

I push on the door oh so gently, praying to whoever is listening to just rid those demons before entering again.

But I know not what awaits me on the other side of the door.

Is it just you? Or will it be your demons greeting me, with you dangling beneath the ropes they hold: they’re your masters, and you’re a fragile puppet.

Don’t you know how fucking fragile I am, too?

I can’t fathom the idea of the devil in you, coming out to play, as I contemplate my next move.

I can only withstand so much before my body fails me, sooner giving me up to your demons than to the Grim Reaper himself (which is worse, I wonder?).

I run.

I run to you. I run from you. I run until my lungs can’t inhale even one more sip of air. I run my legs to the point of collapsing, but I don’t stop there.

I can’t stop.

I flee from the chains that bind you hostage, knowing all too well I’m next, should I choose to keep being tethered to the false belief that hope exists.

If you were me, you’d not sneak even a peek into the rear view mirror, so why do I do just that?

Why can I not reign in my own thoughts that are nearly destroying me to the point of non-existence?

I escape.

I seek refuge.

I dream of what’s yet to come.

I hold onto this fucked up ideation that all caterpillars manifest enough life to become butterflies, not a one ever dying in the cocoon created by magic itself. Because magic isn’t real. And neither is hope.

Where’s the white flag?

I see only black.

And it’s bleak.

What a beautiful black world I find myself a part.

Is there ever a light?

There has to be. There just has to be…

Be Open Says;