It bubbles and boils beneath my skin. It laughs mockingly, knowing my power over it may simply only be temporary. It tingles as it burns through my arteries. It waits in front of the locked door awaiting its triumphant return. He knows the moment he steps through the door; I will be at his mercy. Just imagining another fight makes me want to vomit. I know the door is locked. I know he is locked away. But it still lives just beneath the surface. My mental illness feels like a living, breathing creature trapped inside my vessel of a body. My skin is the only barrier between safety and destruction. It slithers underneath it, my skin rising and falling with it’s every movement. Late nights remind me that my brain is powerful. My brain holds the key to the door he paces in front of. He will always be waiting. He will always look through my eyes and see what he can use as a weapon. If that door opens just a crack, he could skillfully craft thoughts in my mind to make me think what he wanted. He would have the power, and I do not know if I would have the strength overtake him again.
This is not something I need to worry about right now. These thoughts only come to mind every once in a while. The reminder that he lives is scary nonetheless. It makes me feel tainted. Dirty. To feel even for a second that my brain is not my own; that it is a separate entity. A creature that schemes against me. I am thankful that currently, I feel as though I am in control.
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