we are constantly at war with one another like this: a needle against my heart, a knife against her neck. she smiles something dark – almost deranged, even – and still my hand holds steady against her pulse. I do not know how I manage it when the needle in hers pierces ever so slightly as a warning, the weight of it against me sharp and static.

“further,” she laughs, shrill screeches echoing into my ear. a flash barely registers in my sight, and the movement of silver is too fast for me to stop – something within me begins to bleed. first dripping, and then gushing; but even an explosion would make no difference at this point.

we both know blind instinct moves my hand in response, splitting skin from her in retaliation. it is not red but black that pours, her manic expression growing as the liquids pool around us; murky and desolate.

I cannot tell who screams louder after that – but it is with a desperation that mirrors mine. to live? to die? the pitch shatters glass around us and shards force their way into our skins, yet it does not hurt; it has not for a very long time.

a pause, and then the words slip out of our mouths at the same time before I even register it:

“no, I am okay. I am still me.”

-

“I think it’s funny how they say the scariest monsters are the ones under your bed, when clearly the true monsters are the ones that live in your head.”

(A.H.Z)