He knows

When I write about her, I'm not scared. I know I'm safe in my own home.

I don't think she'd even try to find me.

But him?


I can't sleep at night after I write the stories about him.

I still hear his voice echo in my head.

How it sounded when he'd say my name.

After writing about her, I get angry. I'm mad, but I move on.

After writing about him?

I look behind the shower curtain. I keep the light on. I sleep on the couch.

It's irrational, I know.

I start getting paranoid that he'd be able to find me. That I'm not alone.

But he's more dangerous.

He was in my thoughts.

He was in my body.

He was methodical.

He's reached out since.

He knew what he was doing.

He knows what he's doing.

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Then I'm back.

A cool breeze brushes my face on my morning run. Then I'm back in Tenessee. Going on my morning run near our apartment. I feel the same cool breeze. Feel the same emotions. Depression. Pressure. And h

It's too good to be true.

To have these moments. Leave a self-defense class. More and more confident each week. Wearing my nice yoga pants. Drive to my mom's to drop off fresh pears from the farmer's market. We rest. On rockin

How do I know

That I'm me? I feel creative I want to write Or cook Or make jokes Or learn I'm not exhausted, obsessive, or anxious That's how I know.