The demons have been pernicious lately. They slither slowly through the grey nether regions of my consciousness, unseen but felt. Their utterances are soft but compelling, reminding me of the pointlessness of this struggle. My tongue is stopped, a red sore swells on my throat, burning and itching, now scabbing over, nearly healing, then angrily erupting again.
I tell myself to sit, to write, that unstopping my voice may release the poison. That may be pure superstitious bullshit. The one may have nothing to do with the other. It may be my need to make sense of things by seeing patterns in coincidence. I’ve had the eruption on my neck before, frequently, in times of stress, always in the same place. It generally fades with time, but this occurrence is stretching longer than usual.
‘You’re lazy,’ they whisper.
‘You’re right.’ I agree with them, shame, then despondency, drifting like a dull net over me. ‘What’s the point?’
‘You have nothing to say.’
I turn the sentence I have just typed over in my mind, wondering if it should stand. The red spot on my neck burns hotter.