A bag of old bones

They're watching me.
From my closet, I can feel their eyes,
Piercing into my rib-cage with red hot irons.
They're waiting for me;
Waiting for me to lose the composure I've slowly rebuilt, but I resist their calls, mostly.
I prevail over their midnight screeches and taunting entices.
But sometimes, at the devil's hour, I am weary from fighting and defending my temple.
Wholly consumed by their deafening shrills, I choose my weapon.

To satisfy their needs is to satisfy my own; to satisfy the gorges caused by your love.
Maybe I am the cause of this loathsome web of lies.
With tear-stained hands, I rip out my skin; flay myself alive to feel the pain I have selfishly inflicted upon others.
I am addicted to acquiescing my malignant spirits, and there is no rehab.
The bag of old bones in my closet never stop whispering my name.