What wicked thing my joyful soul destroyed?
That taunting quip? Your smug, defiant sneer?
Perhaps it was the way you stripped me down,
Excising hope while caught within your snare.
Such monstrous beast! Ah wait… Yes, I remember now.
Those jagged words. That precise swing. You felled
Me with a single blow. Yet, still, it was
Not you who was the death of me. Oh no,
It was not you at all. It was the lies
I fed myself — a poison slow and sure.
Deceptive fiend, relentless foe … it was me!
I grabbed the sickle from your eager hands.
I loathed myself and took me by the throat.
I cut me down. In vague and damning thoughts,
I weighed your voice against my fears and shame.
I judged myself by dubious half-truths,
Deficiencies, exaggerated blame,
And I became the reaper, yes. It was
Me! I became the reaper of my soul.

The Reaper was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Iron fingers cage me in. Stained walls, starchy food, dirty sheets — I hate them all, but they’re familiar.

Memories guard my cell. Every so often, they break in, shine a light at my face. Panic seizes, regret, as I’m pinned down and beaten.

I’d do anything to escape.

The door to my cell squeaks open where the lock has long since broken free. I stare down the dark corridor toward freedom.

Freedom.

What if…

My guards laugh through the darkness. “Go ahead. Try to outrun us.”

I shudder and slam the door shut again.

It’s safer here for me.

The Cell was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.