But brittle thorny stems,
they break before they bend,
and neither one of us is one of them.
— The Shins, Turn On Me
My demons, they come to tell me of that time
in the future when it’ll be my turn.
They tell me that it’ll sear like an open wound,
the type of burning that only those with my courage can endure.
They say that I’ll have gone on too long
without considering the stupidity of my ignorance.
They tell me that when that time comes
they have to do what has been prophesied in ages past.
They say that they must treat me like all the others
despite whatever happiness I’ll have ever known.
I then make them the promise of all promises.
I tell them that on that very day
They’ll see me standing amidst my successes.
I’ll have my glass of something expensive and laugh
at myself because I’ll know my time has come.
Or I’ll sit atop my fortunes and weep sheepishly,
cursing at myself for letting them take it all away.
Or if I’m wrong in all my predictions,
I’ll stand behind my glossy mask and look down
and know that I lived long enough to see myself become the monster.
My demons, they laugh at all my guesses.
They tell me that I have nothing to fear,
that my expectations are far from the reality that awaits me.
They pat me on the back with cold hands
and tell me that I’m only as doomed as they are.