In the Back of Her Mind

A Conversation

Hello, Insanity. It's been a while.

I don't think you should call me that.

Then again, I'm talking to my self.

My self? Not myself?

My fake friend, there's a difference.

My Self

My being.
All being thrown away.
All just nothing. There's
my self, a pony just like
you. Then there's my existence,
my soul, my everything
except the inside me.
Myself, I'm simply a
monster.
Everything they see.
And my self isn't such
a drastic difference.
The conversations I have
are fake. They are coping
mechanisms. I don't need some
shrink to tell me that.
I'm smarter. I'm known for
my ego, and you know
what? I love it and hate
it. I secretly want it to
go away. I don't want to be
that pony. But I am not in
control. I am out of that
perfect ring of control, I am
different. So I don't care if you
see me as a monster. Because
I am.

InControl

It means that I am in that ring,
that I'm safe from Society's harm,
safe from my own emotions.

I cannot be in control. All I can do
is ignore. Ignore. Or maybe I am
in control, and I'm just unaware.
Blissfully. At least, I'm in control

of my body. I can keep from
moving, from looking at those
pathetic faces. I can regulate what
goes in my body. I can use the
IV needle to drain myself of

blood. But I can absolutely not
control what goes on in my mind.
It is a confusing, spontaneously
combusting place. Boom. Boom.
Thought: THEY WILL KILL ME.
Feeling: I DON'T CARE. Voice:

NEXT TIME, YOU'RE THROWING
IT UP AFTERWARDS. And you know
what the fickle thing about control
is? It's that I'm not the one in control.
My mind is. Its running on its own,
giving me rare opinions. If I try to
interject, I get quite a backlash.

But

At least I'm dying.
At least I have lost all hope.
At least I am not free.
At least.