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How is it that we both exist in the same body? MY body. I was here first. Whatever sort of being he turns out to be, should it not, like matter and anti-matter joining, only result in an explosion that leaves nothing for this miserable world to see? If so, should it take so long to occur? I would think not.

Neither of us has more strength than the other. Like God and Jacob in immortal combat. When he is tired, I strike. When I am weary, he attacks. And we are interlocked in this battle, a fight in a complete stand-still. A standoff.

And neither one of us will fall.

A good force surely would destroy an evil force and itself if both equal in strength. It is the sacrifice it would make.

If it is stronger, it would destroy the other with little to no damage to itself.

If it is weaker, it would already be dead and its absence greedily clutched up by its evil nemesis. But I’m still here.

So which of the latter two is me? It can be only one. And it is this. We are one. We are both evil and madness is fighting madness, churning, turning slowly, pounding out more blood and insanity with each blow I throw, each blow he returns.

He’s a danger I can not stop. I can not cage him. I can not keep him in one place. He’s always moving, never still enough to be a presentable target. He disappears without trace. He reappears with my face without warning. Always during a time where only one of us can be. A crucial time for me. An opportune time for him.

With such conviction, I make my vows alone. I whisper credos. I make resolutions in the dark. In the darkness of my closed eyelids, in bathrooms stalls, in my car, in empty work cells when I’m the only one left working. I resolve to be better. To not have such horrible thoughts, to not harbor such rage.

But the noise. A raging static returns in my ears and I know he’s still here. He’s still punching holes in my brain. He wants me to stay alone. He wants me to forget things and alienate myself and I obediently follow. I quake at the mention of my name. I quiver with the realization that he has control of the words I would say and I can’t…remember…

I feel as if my fingers are burning, bursting at the knuckles.

He makes me cringe. People are surely staring at me. Surely, they mock me for wincing with no reason, with nothing visible to merit a wince, but I cannot help it. Is it him? Fitting himself under my skin. Straining his hands beneath my knuckles, fingers feeling around, stretching into my hands like a glove.

Shifting my skull, readjusting my eyeballs. Possessing my face? My last breath is a whispered growl.  An accusation.


-m.p. 07/02/2012