I think sometimes the demons come back because they’re bored. And no matter how many times you tell them, “but I was fine…I was fine…” they just whisper back “we know…that’s why we had to come.”
They sneer at me
and their spiteful liquor
sends a flash of liquid lightning
scorching down my throat. It heats
the roots of my ribs
as it courses through my essential organs;
it stews within the cavern of my
stomach, sending its steam back
to bubble in my esophagus; it
dilutes through my digestion
until every part of me holds
a molecule of malice
and every nerve sparks.
Next morning I still throb
with thirst, and can still smell
the smoke of their smirks.
Back bent, shoulders shrunk, eyes
inverted to avoid
the shards of glances from those who know.
Trapped in a cocoon of muffled mutters
I stagger away from the remnants
of their reward. Back bent,
eyes down, hat pulled over
the drums that pound with shame.