You're behind me, aren't you?
Behind my weak form, behind this place, behind the years.

Yet you strangle me!

...

How do you do that?

How can all of you...

...

There's so many of you, is the thing.
There's you, and you, and you; amongst so many others.
It's... haha, it's really something.

You know,
whenever my friend's arm brushes against mine, I pull back in disgust.  An internal "Christ don't touch me" screeches and stops as suddenly as it forms.

I bear my fangs and my wrists tense, ready to claw at eyes who have no business watching me, before I catch myself
and step away.

And when said friend's tactlessness pulls them away from their intuition and keeps them preoccupied with their own feelings, I hear all of your voices at once.
"My needs first. My needs first."

And I wonder-
would the fangs have grown anyways
would the claws have grown anyways
would I had been this anyways
if none of you would have given me a reason to.

...

No, no.
Surely not.

...

Of course not.









*Of course not.