what are you talking about?

I remember having a conversation

with an imaginary person.
it must be exhausting

to be you. I tell her,
sitting across the room.

her eyes red and sunken from
fear and fatigue.

it must be hard keeping track
of all the lies,

all the things you do
and hide
in your crazy disordered life.

why the charade?

aren't you tired of being this way?
pretending to
be someone you're not,
I ask,
shaking my head in wonder.

she doesn't answer, instead she
smiles grimly
and says

I don't know what you're talking
about.