Perfect

Inside of me, lies a demon.

It's ugly and small, and it feeds on my fears and doubts. I hate it, and it loves it, because my hate makes him even bigger.
If it's one of those days when it's cold outside, and I just don't feel like even getting out of bed, those are the days it loves the most.
It speaks. It tells me I'm not good enough, doesn't let me get to my reasons to live.
But it's not all that bad. I hate it so much I often do things I know it'll dislike: I take care of myself, I love myself, I help out others. That's my little way of rebellion. That's how, in a way, the demon helps me. It makes me push myself more and strive for perfection. It only tells the truth, but if I'm perfect, there's nothing it can say.
...Right?
That's what I think, so I do my best to live my life the way I find perfect. But, the more things I change to perfect, the more new things it finds. It's a fight for survival, I guess. Only one of us can win, and it's a never-ending battle.
Today, I've lost the fight.
I know because I'm alone, in a dark corner of the room, crying.
Today, it got me, and now my tears are like an elixir to it. I hate it.
And that makes it stronger.
Today I've lost the fight.
But tomorrow is another day.
Another fight.
Tomorrow, I can win.
Tomorrow, I can be...

...Perfect.

Cicmila