The Demons Within

Tell me what you demons done & I’ll show you the love they need.

Tell me what your demons have done
and I’ll show you the love they need.

They learned to survive before they learned to sleep,
built altars out of silence
and called endurance a virtue.
They clenched their teeth through hunger,
mistook abandonment for strength,
and sharpened themselves
on every door that never opened.

My demons don’t howl.
They whisper.
They flinch at kindness,
pace the rooms of my chest,
waiting for love to come with a cost.

They don’t need to be forgiven.
They don’t need to be fixed.
They need a place to set the knives down,
to breathe without bracing,
to be held without being owned.

So tell me what yours have done—
not to confess,
not to be saved—
but to be seen.

I’ll meet them where they learned to survive
and love them
until they remember how to rest.