Inside the Watching

What Remains When the Thinking Isn’t Yours

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It knows when I pause.
Don’t pause.
Don’t—

The scratching in the walls isn’t rats.
They don’t learn your breathing.
They don’t repeat it back
back
back—

Something in the house keeps saying my name
with my voice.
But wrong.
A half-second early.
Like it already knew
What I was going to think
before I thought it.
Think it.
Thought it.
Think—

The corners bend at night.
I’ve seen them tilt inward
like they’re leaning close
to listen.
To listen.
To listen.

I tried to sleep, but the Vale kept moving my dreams
closer to the door.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer—
Stop.
No.
Stop writing that.

The whisper under the floorboards said:
“We remember you.”
I didn’t ask it to.
I didn’t—

My reflection mouthed something
I didn’t say.
Didn’t say.
Didn’t—

If you hear the tapping,
don’t answer.
It only taps because it knows
Your hands will move.
It likes the way your fear sounds
in your wrists.
Your wrists.
Your—

The Vale isn’t watching.
It’s inside the watching.
Inside the gaps between the seconds,
where your thoughts don’t belong to you anymore.
Anymore.
Any—

If you’re reading this,
it’s already turned to face you.
Don’t look.
Don’t—

RUNRUNRUNRUNRU—

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