What keeps me up at night

My heart and brain are shades of gunmetal gray and heather blue, caught in between the unholy desire to be holier than angels and the wicked need to be human.

My soul is a different matter. It is the color of swamp water, not black but not gray. Brown muddies it up, swirls in its own shades of fucked up with grains of mustard yellow dragging it down.

My hands are the worst though. They're black, like soft ink. There's blood crusted beneath my short nails. Don't worry, it's not anyone's living. It's my own blood and the blood of my demons. It's thick like ichor, brackish red and flaky and smells like rusted out iron. It don't matter how hard I scrub, it's not coming off.

My bones ache with a coldness that won't leave. Winter hides beneath my skin, in my mind. It numbs everything I see, everything I touch. Only the burn of smoke can breathe warmth back into my body. It scorches the roof of my mouth, drying it out like a desert in the summer. I don't mind though as the smoke tingles and burns as it curls into my lungs, chasing away the frost as it permeates the flesh and wraps it's ghostly tendrils around my heart.

With a raspy sigh, it leaves, taking it's warmth with it. The empty full moon turns the translucent smoke silver, just barely visible in the blackness of night. I watch as it escapes, disappearing like a whisper in a maelstrom. It helps though, even as it slips away. The icicles are melting, the frost disappearing. The icy blanket that wraps itself around my shoulders lightens, making it easier to breathe.

Smoke curls into my mouth a second time, my chapped lips wrapped around the blunt as burning embers flare with each huff. I can feel the icicles melting, turning into cool water as it seeps from my bones. My demons are quiet. They sit in the darkest parts of my heart, watching and waiting but temporarily sated.

Tomorrow, they whisper to themselves, tomorrow we snarl and claw at the walls of our cage. Tomorrow, will be another day. Another battle, another war. They conspire, even as silvery vines wrap around their muzzles, around their throats, heavy as white smoke. Tommorow, they promise, voices sugary sweet with eyes like a wolf in sheep's clothing.