Fingers digging, into your eyes like a monster.
There are no claws, but grubby human hands.
In this case you finally realize, there are no such thing as monsters, but the personification of humanities darkest personas.
Robed in flesh.
We take on a million masks, and some take shape
Slowly worm their way under your skin.
Locked beneath your flesh it eats away until there's no more you left, just your face.
You are the beast, it doesn't exist anywhere except in our heads and within our actions.
Nails cut barely too short, fingers red at the ends,
Pressing so harshly to your face that even the nubby nails start to cut at your soft skin.
All too soon it's burning.
Clawing from the outside in, trying to strip away your flesh, the symbol of your imperfect humanity.
Is it an ally or a foe?
Freeing, or murderous?
Sometimes we confuse our heroes for our enemies.
Screams drowned out by song, but it doesn't feel like torture.
Like the flesh has been unzipped, the veil torn away.
You are left with uncertainty, and you soon understand, it's all your choice.
Have you been freed or murdered?
We let what our monsters do to us, define us, when that only lets them win.
An enemy can never win without your permission.