The Persistence of Demons

Sometimes, I swear that when I look in the mirror,
all I see reflected back to me is a black void.
A vortex,
in the shape of a woman.

If I don't look away—
avert my eyes—
I know that I will get sucked in.

Sirened into the inky-blackness of my self-hate;
accompanied by deep crimson pools of my own blood;
an omen of what's to come.

Why can't my intrusive thoughts ever be of good things—
of beauty?

Why is it that I can't even remember what a 'good dream' is, anymore?

Every day, and every night, I am plagued with visions—
visions of destruction,
of tragedy,
of death.

Even at the young age of seven, I was afflicted—
convinced that if my mom missed our nightly prayer,
'a man would come set our house on fire,'
and my entire family would go up in smoke.

How does that kind of thinking even start?

How does an extremely sheltered,
highly-monitored little girl,
come up with that?

For my whole life, people have told me to
'think positive.'
'Look at the silver lining.'
I don't think they understand that
catastrophes are embedded in my DNA.

When they were children,
their biggest fears were of the dark—
of monsters.
I was afraid of people.

I was right.