All night I hear his tongue. It twists and writhes–a strong muscle that creates a projection that is not my own. He is creating messages of rain, of hurricanes, of earthquakes. Falling knives cut my cheeks and I awake from my insomnia. Eyes that glaze and I speak with all my might, but no one is in there to listen–I flee.

He grips my wrist and I grip the other. My mind cries as my tears stand still. These hands are not my own.