The Fear of Mine

"Just another bite," it says as it claws away my flesh from the bone. "I'm helping you." 

She was.

If I could work with nothing, then myself and I were valuable by themselves. That is the correct interpretation--right? I just have to prove it. Experiment. Design and test.

Or maybe that isn't my greatest fear--the gravity of the situation day in and out-- but an appendage of the thinly traced deflection from my feelings of invalidity in the illusion.

She keeps hurting herself with those mental barriers only to sully my name in the process. Saying that I had driven her to the depraved, calculating last breaths she felt each passing day. 

But I don't want her to be hurt. I just want her to never feel the crushing disappointment of each previous year's members once again. It was just supposed to be a nudge; a helpful survival tip. So why is her spirit dying in my guilty arms as if I'm dragging her to the guillotine myself? 

Why is she writing it all down as if letting it go one more moment unsaid will nullify it's worth. The clicking of these keys will never make me evacuate from my comfy corner in that 2d mind of hers. 

All the other fears are the same, blaming me as the root cause of suffering. But as if. I'm not that powerful. I'm a friend. I give her the tools to execute happiness. No exorcism would remove me.

She's suffering, I hear, the tears are loud like drums of grief. That means that she needs me to speak. So I do since I'm the mirror that shows the demons, not creates them.

I latch my clean fingers around her paper shoulders and allow my breath to seep into the pages as I leave some words to reflect on.

" Did you try?"

Together, my hands link.

It

clicks.