Chapter 28.

 Imaginary friend.

I slit my wrist

when the cracks in me widen.

I speak to myself

without knowing—

words spilling like shadows in an empty room.

Sometimes I hear my own voice

and it frightens me.

I ask myself why?

But depression and anxiety

are squatters that never leave.

Flashbacks strike like fists—

yesterday barging in uninvited.

My memory is a picture frame

I never asked to hang.

Selective recall is crueler still.

I stand before the mirror,

and see someone who swears

they’ve never lived the memory

their mind insists is theirs.

Talking to my demon.