Only in Whispers Does It Speak

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Late at night,
In the mirror, I stare.
I hear a devilish voice,
But look around to see no one there.

It speaks evil words to me,
In a voice so grueling and low.
I wish the voice would leave me,
But it threatens me that it will never go.

The rage in the voice only increases,
As I stare into my own eyes.
I listen silently as it tells me tales,
In which I am the main character that always dies.

It will rip out my organs with its teeth,
And chew them up like bubble gum.
The blood dripping down its chin,
Wipes it up and sucks the remainder off its thumb.

It will rip the pieces of hair out of my skull,
One by one until my scalp is exposed.
I look away from the mirror hoping it will end,
But the voice does not dull.

It continues to whisper to me
All the bad things it will do,
Like push toothpicks under my nail beds,
And how my pain is its favorite view.

Cut my tongue out with garden shears,
Then watch me struggle to scream or speak,
Playing perfectly to all my fears,
The terror in my body causes me to fall weak.

Place me in a dark room,
With only candlelight,
But my body is covered in gasoline,
I cannot win this fight.

It will pull apart my rib cage,
And slice up my insides with its claws,
Using a pair of rusty pliers,
It will then pry every tooth from my jaws.

I close my eyes and beg,
“Please go away!”
But again the voice relays to me,
That it is here forever to stay.


Image of The Witching Hour


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