I think I swallowed a demon.
Snuck on a spoon or washed on a wave of tea. A tiny black, what else would it be, demon that took up residence in a small shadowed corner of my mind.
Every little wrong, any stupid human blunder he snatched with little clawed hands and nibbled at me round my edges.
So my demon got fat. And my demon got strong. The little wrongs grew big but only on the inside. The blunders became failures, each more predictable than the last. I knew I would fail before I even began.
The memory of my demon is great. Any humiliation, fall, mockery or mistake is there in cinema-screen-full-HD-on-demand whenever you don’t want it. He projects it behind my eyes.
And so it goes. On and on again.
Now my demon is fat and content, lounging like the old king he is. He rules with the wave of a hand, a short cold laugh and one cruel word.
I am paralysed. A subject, obedient. Because I once swallowed a demon.
But content kings grow lazy. No reign can last forever.
Quietly, there will be an army.