The story of the mad woman,
a classic,
flickers like a film reel
in my head.
Concocted personalities,
hallucinations,
voices,
they all seem
to be happening
to someone else.
I leave rooms,
ghosted by the air,
and find myself on roofs,
under cars,
and half-naked
in the middle
of parks.
A presence, with its hand
on my shoulder,
gestures like a parent.
I’ve been bad…
But the character is simply
from a book,
fiction and made
out of ink
and bound paper.
She’s written.
And having been written means:
no formal goodbyes.
