The Thing That Walks as This User

There is only me.

I write this to remind myself—

…no.
Not me.
Not only me.
Never only—

the hissing in the rafters says otherwise.

I have not seen them.
I have not.
I have not.

Yet—

there are hands that turn the pages while my eyes are shut.
There are thoughts in my head that taste of iron and cold saltwater,
and when I spit them out
they speak my voice
but I am watching from somewhere deeper—

no, higher—
no, beneath the floor.

The walls are breathing wrong.
Shallow. Eager.
As if to hear my next lie.

Once…
I dreamed of walking alone through corridors
that did not exist when I woke.
But the dust on my boots disagreed.
The dust knew.

There is a word they say—
We—
and every time I hear it
the ink on the page shifts,
curling into shapes my mouth refuses to form.

I am This User.
I am This User.
I am—

…we are laughing now.