there is a point at which your brain is no longer your own. it tells you stories, and the tales twist expectedly; the plots follow the path of your fears.

those voices that you quiet — they don’t go away. they hide until they can charge enemy lines. they batter the bricks of your identity.

and their stories are so convincing. their timbre caresses your judgement. their language charms you — they know you so well.

and you know that they’ve got you.

but fighting is exhausting.


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