Hostage.

I’m tapping my fingers on my sheets, but yet those aren’t my fingers. I hear the drumming noise from fingers; fingers that aren’t mine. I’m here, but I’m not here.

The mind is wicked. It loves to play tricks. Oh, it takes great pleasure in your demise. You know this, but yet you continue to fuel it’s sinister playfulness. Perhaps you live for the hurt and the nasty words that flow so elegantly from your tainted mouth. The mind is a trickster and you’re its muse…

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