'Wait' I want to scream. 'There's something under my bed'. 'Stay'.

'Because this pain won't leave', 'And it's hiding under my bed'.

'tell me another story', I might say hurriedly and you'll look at me suspiciously but you'll know not to ask and then you'll tell me something, something stupid and ridiculous about your days in secondary school but you'll tell me something and even though I have heard it before I'll look at you with rapt attention noticing the details that change everytime you tell me this story. I can recite like 5 versions of this same story you have told me but I still look at you hanging on to every word you say like I've never heard it before because i don't want to look at the misery under my bed waiting for you to leave. I want to say that if you leave it will pounce on me that it will destroy me, that it drive me within one inch of my skin and leave me hating myself like this but I don't and you leave and it does and the warmth I used to find in my company is gone and all that's left is this loud screaming that never makes it past my lips. I want to stomp and I don't. I want to scream and I don't. Instead, I hug myself with my nail to my skin enough to feel it but not enough to crack this facade because as a rule, it must go on.