sometimes at certain moments in my head, there is silence.

quiet often feels loud, but not as loud as when he screams.

“who is he?”—you might be wondering.

he is fear.

he is rage.

he is anxiety.

he is my reflection.

he yells at me to stop inflicting such pain against an angel, he notes that i am already clean enough in his eyes, that you cannot purify what is already pure.

i want to stab him in the eye with the dagger in my pocket, and i reach to grab it, but he stops me.

he throws the weapon away from my grasp, he take my hands in his, gently feeling my pulse point on my wrist.

“you’re alive.” he says. “you are living, you are breathing, you are good. you do not have to change.”

“but why do you lie?” i reply with tears in my eyes. “how can you not see that blood stains my dress crimson, how can you not see the hands you call pure have committed heinous acts? how could you ever see me as something so out of reach?”

he sighs. “who has plucked your eyes out and replaced them with hatred?”

i don’t respond, realizing the truth behind his words.

he knows my eyes are unclean, and that i cannot change the way i see myself.

he gently places his hands over my eyes, telling me to not believe the lies, telling me to think of only good things, that my true sight will be restored if i listen to him.

after all that, i still see the rotten flesh of a forgotten peach—covered in mold and insects.

he sighs once more. “i tried to help you. but you will never believe me, will you?”

i nod and he walks away.

i haven’t heard his screaming in a long time.