Demoms

Contributor: Amanda Williamson

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I don’t understand how many times I have to tell you,
“no, I don’t like butter on my popcorn,”
for you to understand that
I don’t want my popcorn to have butter on it.

For my birthday you gave me a pie.
“I know you hate cakes,” you said.
Your lips curled into a bitter smirk.
It’s covered in pecans that look like dying roaches.
Did you forget that I’m allergic to pine nuts?

And I tell you that I want to go away
forever.
But you laugh, your voice a sickening combination of
Doubt and pessimism. Of cruelty and spite.

I don’t think you hear me when I ask,
“What is it like to jump off a cliff?”
Because you smile and say,
“Hopeful. All you can do is hope you have wings.”

And I wonder if demons have wings,
kind of like an angel’s.
Because haven’t you jumped before?
But you lived to push me over the edge today?
You must be a demon.


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