By J V Birch
I’m not sure when it started. Maybe when our family split
or when I lost the little girl from the first six years of my life.
I talk to myself. Every day. As if I’m the only one who hears
me. It can be tricky at times, getting sprung chatting to air.
Some think I’m coming undone. I am highly strung but don’t
feel any looser. I speak when I need to talk things through,
analyse my feelings, recount an event like some introspective
therapist obsessed with her stuff. As if I need the rehearsal
before sharing for real, to pare it back, let the crazies out.
And I repeat myself, go over old ground like something needs
saving. You can do that with family and friends but they’d get
sick of you quickly, won’t call anymore, let alone visit so you
can revisit that thing they’re so over. Perhaps it’s all being
collected to be pressed in a diary for that younger me following.
There’s a name for it my husband tells me, kissing me quiet
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