save me from this bed; save me from the wicked things I love

Today I'm thinking about a story that I read. If you know me well at all, then you know who the book was by. I am thinking about a little lizard on my shoulder. Sometimes it's so small that I hardly know it's there. Sometimes it's tongue hissing in my ear is all I hear, or sometimes it just distorts everything else that I am trying to hear. I don't know how long it has been there. Sometimes I feel like I was born with it there. When I was young I thought it was so small that when I grew up it would get smaller and dissappear. I was wrong. It grows larger as I grow taller. Now it's a dragon. It gets more terrible as I grow wiser. Today I thought about where my skin ends and where it's scales begin. I thought about throwing it off, but it's stuck. I tried cutting it off, but I bled. I had a nightmare where I heard my own voice hissing. There's no doubt in my mind that it must be killed. There's no doubt in my mind that I will die. My heart screams "quick! kill it before I try to keep myself alive!" My soul begs for a new body, a new heart, a new mind. ..."someone find my Maker; I'm coming apart at the seams..." It's hard to submit to death in order to live. It seems like nature accepts this. Why do we spend our lives fighting it?