Some old writing, unedited, fiction

Today on my couch I was raped by a demon
I think it was a demon, pretty sure a demon
But the weird part is I don’t mind this at all
I mind the voices screaming about it after
like they know what’s going on in my mind
I’m an actor I scream out loud, I’m Daniel Day
I retort, hand me the fucking Oscar I insist
and they refuse to believe me and I hate it

I wouldn’t mind the voices if they just accept
that I’m number one by virtue of existence
I refuse to be guided by figments of imagination
Why can’t they just narrate the happenings
in my day-to-day—why must it all be editorial
“The man is getting raped by his own blanket,”
is exactly what I want to hear—and nothing else
or better yet, I’d like to hear nothing at all.

Maybe that’s why the demon doesn’t talk
because the demon knows that if it did
I’d break that shit off in a second




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