All through my day, "It" shows "It's" face shamelessly. On the inside I cringe as "It" yells and shouts, grumbles evil things and stomps and pouts. How selfish "It" is! Nothing matters to "It" but itself. "It" only becomes more violent if I try to stop "It," and seems to get joy as I'm crushed emotionally and mentally by "It's" taunts and cruelty. Sometimes, "It" goes too far and I begin to crumble, and then fall apart at "It's" snarling words. Sometimes when this happens, "It" melts the cracked, broken edges, then holds them together until the melted parts have solidified. The cracks are still there, I can feel them, but it's better than if "It" hadn't helped at all.
Even then, I never, never forget that "It" is a monster. My deepest fears personified. "It" can even be cruel to others, those I care for. "It" sometimes flares to life with even the smallest of actions that "It" dislikes. A word wrongly placed. A spilled glass of milk. That's all it takes.
"It's" only ever so slightly abnormal. No one would ever suspect. "It" is average, with blue eyes, thick hair, and pimples on "It's" magnolia-shaded face. "It's" scent is vaguely reminiscent of linen, and "It's" voice is not unlike those that sing Gloomy Sunday in their depressingly beautiful murmurs. It holds the same "It's" stomach lies my wishes and dreams and ideas. On occasion, "I" manage to scrawl them onto paper or spit them out before It gets to them, but not usually.
Each day, I look this monster in the eyes and face the truth. No one will ever help me with "It." No one will ever be able to. Because I'll never tell.
I can't tell. "It" is strong, even if cruel.
"It" is important. I need "It.""It" lives inside me.
"It" is me.