When I Call It “Not Myself”

I built a room to keep it still,

four walls, no sound, no name—

but something in the silence learned

the rhythm of my veins.

It does not knock, it does not speak,

it moves where thought begins—

a patient hand beneath my ribs,

rewriting what has been.

And when I call it “not myself,”

it smiles without a face—

for every step I take away

is one it takes in place.

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