Someone else lives inside my head now. Or, I am a shell for someone else’s mind. I can’t decide; but I prefer the former. It implies I still exist, however true or untrue that may be.
“No big deal,” I was told after the accident. “Just a snip here, a snip there. A replacement or two inside there. Good as new.”
And here I am, a shared space.
In all fairness though, I’m mostly me; but every once in a while – like a switch – I’m incalculable.
Dangerous, mysterious, out of my mind.
And here I am, blood on my face.
Shyla Fairfax-Owen ©