Nightingale

The night has never been a safe space for me.

As most click off their lamps and settle down,

pouring their worries and stresses of the day into their pillows,

my mind lights up like New York City on a Saturday afternoon.

This is the time when my demons come out to play.

Torturing me with their vile tongues,

“You’ll never be good enough”, they laugh,

“You’re just like your father”, they scream.

They dance around my room in a fiery delight.

Cackling at my every wince,

two pin me down by the arms with the weight of their truth.

A third whispers my every anxiety into my ear with his hot breath,

While another laps at my tears

like a hound who hasn’t drank in days.

This goes on for hours,

a minute is every bit of sixty seconds.