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.
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.