Me
There’s something deeply unsettling about realising that the thing consuming me isn’t out there in the world, sharpening its teeth in the dark, waiting for the right moment to strike. No, that would’ve been easier. I could’ve fought that. I could’ve run, screamed, blamed fate, blamed circumstance, blamed anything but myself. But this is different. And somewhere in all this, I realise something terrifying, I am both the victim and the accomplice. I’m holding the door open while it walks in. I’m handing it the knife and pretending your hands are tied. It would be poetic to say I’m fighting back. That there’s some grand resistance building inside me, waiting for the right moment to reclaim what’s mine. But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? Most days, I’m just watching. Watching as it takes another piece, small enough to ignore, significant enough to matter. Watching as it carves me down not into nothing, but into something quieter, easier to carry, easi...
