i am told it is mine. the unknown room, the weird shifty walls, the unmade bed.
visitors come looking for me. i confront the empty kitchen, i look for food. i look for a place to seat them because --
i cannot admit that i do not know them. that all this is not mine.
the footprints that scar the polished floor are not mine and neither are these shoes i am putting on.
and when i laugh to mask my fear the laughter isn't mine.
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