Another Letter

How sure were you that you were a figment of someone else's imagination? How damaged do you have to be to jump to that conclusion? There wasn't enough sound to fill your ears, enough air to fill your lungs, but you were overflowing with thought, weren't you? That's all you have left, thoughts, cancerous little maggots spreading the infection to the rest of your brain. Your damage, your disease, it's contagious. Wordborne. They can see the symptoms, too. The purple stripes across your arm and the redness in your eyes. You could at least spare them the sight of utter collapse and decay, but you limp forward on your little parade that will end very suddenly, very soon, I guarantee that. How do I know? Because you think that you're the one speaking.

With Love,
Brandy