hands wrestle with hair,
thoughts wrestle with me.
push, fight, shove.
blood pours from unseen places.
no one notices.
a knock sounds on the door of my mind.
“go away.” i demand, tiredly.
“let me in.” the voice is familiar, yet still intriguing every time i hear it.
“no, go away, i told you to leave.”
“you didn’t mean it.”
“yes, i did.”
“i have something you might want to take a look at…”
“no, you’re lying.”
“ah, but can you be sure?”
he knows it.
i open the door.
and he dines with me, he talks with me, and then he beats me bloody, leaves me for dead, and then sleeps in my bed while i lay on the floor downstairs dying.
i should have never opened the door.