Paranoia
Far too much thinking. Thinking about the lift of a brow, the twist of a lip, the twinkle(or lack thereof) in an eye. How each person who says they love me is just in it for what piece of me they can tear away, wrap in foil and hideaway in the cupboard.
I hear whispers and plots where logical states there are none. My possessions move unbidden when I am away. I see afterimages of people who don’t exist.
Logic in an armoured box in the highest attic states that none of this is real and I really should sleep more. We ignore the whispers from the attic and watch night bats roost in the pristine ceiling.
I’m growing extra eyes in the palms of my hands. Caught in a struggle knowing I must clench them and hide the paranoia. No one must understand that I can look at them twice, see through them thrice and know that everyone's plotting. Plotting and scheming, siphoning and stealing. Clench my palms so can avoid the extra vision I never really asked for, showing me the worst possible outcome of every situation like mould after rain.
Maybe I should pitch right over the edge and declare myself a monster. Hold up my hands in the act of surrender. The extra eyes clear for everyone to see as I approach — red on the edges, rolling madly, optic nerves twitching. Declare that I hold no weapons, dropped them long ago. Just look behind me — the trail littered with armour and war paint, bombshells and shellshock.
Looking around wildly, the question really is: who have I been talking to?
