deniability

It could be argued that in the eyes of some, borrowing is just prolonged thievery. I suppose the action hinges upon intention.

I didn’t mean to steal this thing I borrowed. This horrid being that skulks in the depths of my mind, stuffed there when I had nowhere else to put it.

It paces, and paces, and paces, and paces.

Laughing. Crying. Screaming. Pounding the floors, cracking the walls. There’s blood spattered on the ceiling of my thoughts. It is a monster I never expected.

And I can’t give it back, because if I do.

Well. I’d have to admit that I borrowed it.

No one ever wants to admit their folly, and mine was... pure fallacy. You have to understand that I borrowed it because I thought I had no other choice.

No other escape except these walls that shake from fury untamed and I have to admit, I borrowed this memory to understand how it was made.

And if I could commit the same.

Now it’s stuck in that corner I banished it to, frightened to even look its way because sometimes.

Sometimes it changes shape. And I’ve begun to recognize its face.

Death should never have been given a name.