Just imagine cold clammy fingers wriggling along your inner thigh, uncomfortable and lonely. A sip of water forced down your throat, nose held shut. Chew, and swallow. The sound of a threatened animal, calling, crying, keening. Pitch so high you’re afraid that something inside of you is breaking. There is a secret hiding in you, something no one knows but you, a monster eating away slowly at your necessary organs. There is no escape, it will kill. Be afraid, cringe and hide away in some dark secluded corner, you can’t escape. It’s in you.

I am easily manipulated by the secret sentences whispered in my ear by some unknown force. It screams and I obey. There is some deceptive power that is all me, all my own, it always knows how something will make me feel, I manipulate me with words. I hate it, and I am so afraid of myself, of whatever terrors I would bring unto myself. I would buy it, but then, I'm biased. I write terrifying threats to myself, letters cut and pasted onto scrap paper and hidden under my pillow next to my razor blade and some gauze. A book. Letters from the people I love. Don’t turn your back to the trees, I’ve heard that they sleep, and shouldn’t be forgotten. I'm sure she has some reason. I don't understand it, but I’m sure it exists. Not surprisingly, I don’t care at all, because I am too busy stumbling through the world bleary-eyed and tired.

Things have been crawling out of my head recently, fresh horrors for an uncaring world to devour slowly through their straw-like eyes. I mean, nothing in the real world, nothing fresh, but horrifying memories. Made fresh for the amusement of some abusive god. Does that shock you? Probably not.

I’m constantly shaking, my teeth begin to chatter at the slightest touch. I shriek when people put their hands on me, I feel possessed. Despite it all, the colors continue to amaze me. I cry because your breath on my shoulder could kill me, but I want it there most desperately. Vulnerability is a disease. It kills.

I am 100 breakable.

I know too many dead people.

They all leave me.

I can’t talk about it, no I can’t talk about it.

I’m sick of saying I’m afraid, but I don’t know what else to do anymore. Because I am afraid, it’s what I am.