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Death by Dramatics
I am the parasite that lives in your room, feeding off the attention that you give me. Your vanity serves to maintain my existence. Because you have an abundance of vanity, I will always exist out of the periphery of your vision. Whenever you see me—truly see me—you always blink and shake your head, as if you are trying to forget what you have just seen. I always watch you, my eyes permanently fixated. It is not my choice, and it is not yours. I will always be here.
(a bird taps on the window in a premeditated rhythm)
I exist only in your fears. Your fear of losing your friends. Your fear of suddenly turning unlikeable. Your fear of being alone in the big, bad world. There are no fears of anything consequential in your thoughts. It is—and always will be—all about you, you, and you. All of it, rolled into an indistinguishable mass of petty, hackneyed angst, is perfect for me.
(i need to feed, and you are so convenient)
I almost laugh at the irony. You hate me and wish me gone. But it is your own actions that anchor me to you. Your problems trump everyone else’s. They always do. They tempt you with saccharine lies and sour truths, and before you know it, you have blown them into bigger entities than they actually are.
(sweet chocolate turns tasteless in your mouth)
You tell your friends about me, about how I always torture you slowly. About how I make your blood curdle every time you think of me. I watch you as you tell them. They always walk away. You are only being overly dramatic and ridiculous, after all. And they have learned never to believe you, after all the times you have cried wolf.
(they laugh at you behind your back, you see)
You are so imaginative, they say, like a little girl who lets her own mind run away with her. I exist only in your imagination.
(tap, tap, tap, tap)
You look in the mirror and frown at your reflection. You think you are not pretty enough, not interesting enough, not appealing enough. You wish to have better clothes, better hair, better makeup.
(pretty little colored glass windows making patterns on the floor)
You are conceited. You wallow in self-pity when there are more pressing matters at hand. In your thoughts, wars don’t exist, famines don’t exist, and death is nothing but a mere fantasy construed by pessimists. You are a pathetic excuse for a human. Somehow, you can sense my thoughts, because as soon as I think this, your face twists into a frustrated expression. I exist only in your frustrations.
(porcelain dolls looking, calm, blank, clueless)
“I already know that!” you yell into thin air, but there’s only silence. I can hear you. I choose not to reply.
(whispers lost, whispers gained)
It is easier to not communicate with you.
(silence is the enemy, sweetie)
You sit with your head in your hands, counting repeatedly, as if that will keep me and thoughts of me out of your head. Maybe if something else can preoccupy you, I will not. But you cannot get rid of me. I will always be there.
(always is a very long time)
And your friends will always turn you away, the poor drama queen who can never keep her head out of the clouds.
(clouds so far above your head making shapes only you can see)
I am a discarded toy. I am a memory of a broken childhood. I am a reminder of things you want to forget. I am a nuisance that you cannot get rid of no matter what you do. You push me to the dark corners of your mind because to see me would be doing a misdeed to yourself.
(but i don’t mind the darkness)
You hate me because you love me.
(hate is such a strong word)
You love me because you hate me.
(you love me, don’t you?)
I am you.