Demons and Fireflies

Major depression crept in, seeped through my defences like smoke, the devil shimmying off my shoulder, setting up a nest in my brain- a puppeteer of despair, fingers dancing on my strings, turning thoughts to marionettes that contort and squirm in shadows, a cacophony of whispers, a choir of chaos. I had to confront those demons, childhood phantoms pressed in the attic, now bursting forth like weeds, thick and thorny, clawing for air, their voices, echoes of innocence lost, demanding an accounting - a wildfire licks my skin. Dismembered by the psychiatrist, each session a surgical strike, my thoughts on display upon a cold, sterile table - this, my autopsy, a catalogue of fragmented dreams, my heart caught in a jar, tender pieces examined, wondering how they fell apart. Features of psychosis wrap around me, a mantle sewn from a bunch of uncertainty, trapped within this home, a labyrinth of lost hope. My organised mind, once a temple of clarity, now a broken shrine, debris of sanity scattered like confetti at a wake. But now, I’m facing truths, telling truths, my voice a tremor, each syllable a battle cry, the echoes of my past still haunting the corridors. The unnerving ghosts linger like unwanted guests, whispers slithering through the cracks of my mind, taunts cloaked in shadows, doubt’s relentless parade. Yet when the weight of the world crushes my spirit, when I crave a sliver of light, the fireflies appear - small sparks lighting up the dark, their glow a resistance, a dance of resilience against hopelessness, a flicker of warmth in the cold - a signal from my unresting mind, reminding me that, amidst the ruins, my heart can still flare up; that beauty resides in the fractures and hope, like fireflies, lights the path home.