Give in. The first in a long time.
You have me by the throat, you are my favourite vice. You are chalk bones that keep me standing, the tiny pins that pinch skin but don't draw blood.
You are the sweet force keeping me in line, a veil (that often tears and shows the burns and dreams I keep for show)
for sleep, my quiet side.
She does retire, and hibernate.
And you do not try, but you keep me up for weeks with my hand pressed to my head, searching for a pulse and words that never show.
You came to me this evening. I was writhing in a skin that's not what it's supposed to be. You came to me and told me that, no matter how I twist and turn, I will never get out. You told me that the hook in my back had fused with my flesh. I didn't know. I always hated the mirror. Touching my shoulder gently, you whispered;
"It's over. You know the thrills you feel are false.
The love you feel is a lie
and the highs you get will never last.
Those streets are grey, weren't ever gold."
I clasped your and and dug what was left of my nails in. The bitten edges snag against your white skin. You do not wince, only put your arms around me tightly.
"It's ok," you hum, "you were never going to win. Submit to it. Give in. Acquiesce, little girl. Come home."
The evening terrors are the worst. There is enough light to see they are real.