There are three words to describe what I see:

1.) there are no words

2.) one cannot physically say what I see

3.) I don't know if I see

The body on the floor wasn't cold, I touched him. He wasn't cold, but he certainly wasn't alive. I looked left and right or him, and there was only the highway and the trees. Was it dark? He didn't seem to have a face, but he was face-down on the pavement. I remembered him from years ago. He had a face back then, when I would unlock my door. He was the local bus driver for my city. Hit by a bus. "Irony at its finest". He used to try and ask me things to know me. I wanted to crack him. I can't seem to remember what his face was now. He didn't have one now, I know that. Unless the car knocked it off of him. But he was face-down on the pavement. I knew I had to take the traffic light from him so I did.

I remember people used to tell me that if I took certain medications I would sleep better. I did. I tried those. But that part doesn't matter any more. When I step on the moving black floor without anyone else, that's what matters now. I could feel absolutely nothing when I pulled the covers over my head but now, I seem to feel something. Is it sleep? It must be.

There are no words. I keep my doors locked but I will open the doors that I see when I think I'm asleep. When I am asleep, what do I feel? I asked many of those I found there. Correction, I never talked. I can't even remember if I actually saw them. But I think I saw them. I think I thought I saw them. My mind saw them, I know that.

These are the things I know:

1.) Don't unlock the doors

2.) Opening doors are only okay when you are asleep

3.) No one can hurt me

4.) Only after you get the eggs is it okay to leave

I want to leave so badly but I know I need to get all of my heads in order. Getting the traffic light was only one of the heads. The large eyes followed me as I left the road and walked into the woods. It was getting darker. Was it dark? I thought I knew that no one will hurt me, but my knife came out. Shrieking.

Let me tell you about the shrieking. There are no words, but it's the same over and over again. It doesn't matter what is stabbed. It's the same. Not calling for help; it's not in hatred; it seems calm but shrill and muffled scream of defeat. It's okay. I'm scared but I'm ready to leave. So I let them leave. I relieve them. I know I'm the only one who can hurt anyone so I take care of that here.

Relieving myself requires no stabbing. I pinch myself because I know I am the only one who can hurt me. I wake up and go to the balcony. I wonder when I can get the eggs. Eggs were something my mother would never let me crack when we made cakes. Crack. Hard. On the side of the bowl. Crack. On the kitchen counter. Crack. On the roads. On the trees. At the cat. Crack. I would run outside and crack them if I had to make cake with my mother. Then she would have to crack me. And then my father would have to crack me.

I cracked an egg on a baby birds nest when I was little and I remember the blood hitting the pavement beneath it. It made a key that I tried to grab but mother told me some things are not literal. Some things are metaphorical. When I think back on this, I realize that the only way to really help something leave is to destroy it with what it came from. My therapist said there are other ways to coping with this, like medicines. I wanted to crack him.

Pinching brings me back into my room. My room is like my igloo. Sometimes, when I can open doors, I can see someone who looks like me sitting in an igloo asleep. I know it's how I know myself. No one can crack you inside there. No one can try to know you and no one can crack you. I stab her sometimes, but she always comes back. She shrieks but she always comes back.