Blight

I am dying.
I am dying of a disease born of myself. This insidious condition flows from treacherous genes or an affliction of the soul. This blight of the mind won't kill me in and of itself. It wants me to do the work. It is like a serpant that slips in the ear and coils around your brain, biting, poisoning your thoughts. It whispers in your ears. It speaks with your own voice. It tells you to end it all.. It tells you of the painlessness on the other side. Of the agonies that have unfolded in your life, of the ones that will surely come. It whispers sweetly. It cajoles. It comforts if you'll only listen. It promises. Sometimes it promises to spite your enemies. It promises vengeance from beyond the grave. It promises that they will know sorrow. Sorrow that you've known. Remorse you've felt. I live under seige as I'm dying. I know I can never defeat the horde. I can never vanquish my affliction once and for all. Its something I'll live with, something that may kill me with my own hands, something that I can only survive for one day more. Only realizes that the voice is not my own. Only remember that the promises are false. Only remember that there is a reason to remember.