My mind calls me Imposter. I rip my skin, letting blood pool on its surface. I, Monster, lick my wound and cry that I am broken. I howl in the dread that I am nothing. Terrified, I scream into the void. No answer floats up from its depth. Perhaps it didn't hear me. Perhaps no sound ripped through my throat, perhaps its raw constriction didn't manifest into noise, perhaps I, monster, cannot be heard. Monsters don't exist. I, Imposter, groan and go about my day.