Sometimes we fight the good fight. But there are these voices in our heads, singing sweet nothings and whispering false hopes to us. Our shadows wake up and put on their overcoats, kissing our feet goodbye, spreading their wings to fly. How cursed must you be, that your shadow leaves you behind? That your shadows leaves notes out for your demons to find, you in chains. Fettered to the wall, like a criminal.

You've grown accustomed to the taste of the tears on your cheek, the indentations on your wrist and neck have become a part of you. Like a trophy you're especially proud of.