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"Turgid."
"What a rude word!" you say.
Hanging by my ankles, it's not a word I expected, but, well, it's not alone.
"Turgid anatomy."
"What?" you screech. "Fingers? Toes? Kneecaps?"
"Hmm!" says I, slowly coming to the conclusion you are a delusion, induced by isolation. And blood rushing to my head. "Turgid you!"
"..." I think you're sulking, but I couldn't be sure.
Of a sudden, the floor rushes up to meet my face

I can feel her downsatirs, in bed, asleep. I can feel her breathing, moving, one thigh rubbing against another. I can see myself forcing her legs apart, my hands around her neck, squeezing the life out of her.
I hold my hands in front of me, watch them twitch.
"But I'd never do that to her" I tell myself, over and again, denial mantra.

"What are you doing here?" you ask.
"Well," scraping myself off the floor, "I thought I was flirting. What about you?"
"You tell me. According to you, I'm a delusion."
"Guess you're running away too."

Two seats in front of me sits a homeboy wannabe. Everything about him iritates me. I'm imagining smashing his head in, sometimes with a hammer, sometimes a pick. I can't think now, beyond why I even bother resisting the urge anymore. It's not just that I'd enjoy it, or that he'd deserve it (smug little prick1). There's just too much anger to hold in anymore.

"Running away from what?"
"Myself? And all the bodies I didn't bury in the back yard."
"You're fuckin' wierd."
"Yeah? 'Least I exist."

I can imagine the scene. You come home and call out my name, but there's no reply. As you come upstairs you call again, mutter something under your breath. And then you see the piece of paper on the kitchen bench. I don't remember the words I wrote. Something like 'I love you. I don't want to hurt you. If I stay anylonger I won't be able to stop myself'. You start to cry.

I've been living with this 'thing', a ghost, my conscience, for three weeks I think. Gives me someone to talk to other than myself, even if she's only in my head. When I fuck her it feels like wanking. I don't get angry, don't want to kill her. She can't be real.
Not in the way you're real. I know I've hurt you, but it's nothing to what could've, would've happened if I'd stayed.
I can still hear you crying, keeping me awake at night.