Disquietude

It is there with me

every day

all night.

In the morning when my alarm blares,

and in the evening when sleep evades me.

Its voice is soft and sickenly sweet

like caramel rolled in Sweet and Low.

It tells me all the things I expect to hear:

"You will never be good enough."

"You are a failure."

"You are not worthy of love."

It is speaking just enough truth

that I believe every lie it says.

I fight it  

every day

all night.

In the morning when my alarm blares,

and in the evening when sleep evades me.

I yell at the cavity inducing voice;

I watch it be carried off by ants and then turn to mold.

Though it still tries to linger,

I understand the truth.

Though it still tries to entangle me in syrupy deceit,

I feel how its words sit in my heart and I turn away from them.

I am not the voice.

The voice is not me.

I am me and the voice has no power

as long as I

do not

give it

any.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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