I have suffered more than you have thought, more than you have cried, more than you have fallen upon yourself in the midst of everything else.
If I could have brought on to her the cuts and bruises and salty wounds that I myself facilitated, that she herself on more than many occasions had brought upon, I would have. In that moment. But that moment passed quickly, like a nightmare after sleep. And good, then, that it did. Because that was not me running the show.

I’ve known this person before, seen them in the shadows of my imagination. That is the person who creates many things inside my little mind when the moon is high and I am awake; when there is nothing left for me but to stare into darkness, darkness comes from them. My shadow gives me very high buildings and sharp objects to play with. It gives me riled dogs and empty pages of well-worn books that I have read before, but how could I have? When there is nothing to see and nothing to taste inside the binds but my own reflection glaring back at me, angry as I’ve always been.

To wish her that world inside my head would be to **** her right then. But that is not me. That is someone else.

A person hiding deep inside the shadows of my imagination.