I’m on the very edge, you hear me? On the blade.

And I don’t give a damn, man. I’m cozy here. It’s warm. It’s wet.
Your thoughts smell like cheap booze-breath and old fear. That’s what I breathe.

Your memories are so juicy, like ripe abscesses.
You thought you were just tired? That was me, tired of grinding your pathetic little world into mincemeat.
You try to pray, and I gnaw the letters out of those fucking prayers.

Shut up. Shut up. I didn’t call you. I didn’t.

Oh, didn’t call me? Then who’s been feeding me? Who spent nights picking at old wounds, holding them under the saltwater cascade of their tears? Who scrolled through their feed till their eyes glued shut, fattening me up with bile and other people’s success?

What are you doing to me?

What am I doing? Cut the crap. I’m just LIVING.

Can you be… removed? I’ve read… there are techniques… pills…
I’ll tear you out. With tongs. With fire.

Fire? Ha. You tried. Remember that night, when the candle flame was reflected in your eyes and I was whispering stories in your ear — the scary ones? And you backed down. You always back down.

…

You know what? Go ahead. A little flame? Yeah, try it again. Strike a match under your skull-box. It’ll be fun.

…

We’re fused, darling. We’re Siamese twins joined at the gray matter.
You feed me your dreams, and I shit nightmares back into them. A fair trade.

Leave. For God’s sake…

What fucking God? Here, under the lid of your skull, it’s just me. And my eternal, insatiable thirst. I drink your sanity, and it tastes like rusty iron and old fear. You try to scream, and I stitch your lips shut with the silk threads of silence. You search for light, and I snuff it out with my breath, cold as the cosmos between stars.

I’m tired. Just let go. For an hour, at least. Just… let me sleep.

Nothing to be done, man. 
And you know what the sickest part is?
When I finish you off, when I eat you down to the core…

…I won’t even feel full.