He whispers into the ears of gods. Like a sickness.
Tearing the paper that divides the real and the
fantasy. The fantasy: so dark and twisted it brings
up bile. A sickening thought that you hide beneath
the bed sheets. You run from it; you try to escape
the burning urge. Yearning to give in. He is no help.
He taunts the stinging flesh and holds the blades
above your head. Whispering the sweet nothings
that make you sick. Whispers turn into screams.
Screams become chants. You finally step off
the edge. And he becomes a burning
silence.
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