I’ve been in this room for a couple of days

with a roommate who asked me to please call her Blaze.

There’s no windows or lights and there’s nothing to do

so we spend all our time talking the days through.

We discuss the events that led us together.

They’re eerily similar, like somehow they’re tethered.

Its nice to have someone so much like myself.

I can open up to her like a book on a shelf.

“It was me in my house and my room and my bed

so when she came at me, her face killer red

and her hand in her pocket to pull out a knife

I did what I had to do to protect my life.

“I don’t remember much; it was all a blur.

I checked for a pulse; I needed to be sure.

Then I called 911 to report the homicide

and I sat and I stared at her by my bedside.

“The police showed up and gathered the evidence

and despite my promise that it was only self-defense

they quickly restrained me and shoved me inside

their little blue car and we went for a ride.

“The next day was filled with doctors with questions

asking me about any and all past aggression

and once they were done, they sent me away

and thats how I ended up here, with you, Blaze.”

But now that the days have come and they've gone

I’m starting to see that maybe I'm wrong.

I was alone in my house and alone in my bed

and the girl who attacked me was all in my head.

The girl who I killed was none other than me.

I guess I didn’t die because I called the police.

Or maybe I’m wrong and I’m simply insane.

Maybe I’m still there pouring blood from my vein.

No that can’t be the case because I’m in this asylum.

The voices are loud and I can’t deny them.

I try to tell Blaze about the chaos in my head

and it's then that I realize she is me and we’re dead.