The habit of fiction
My interior monologue is behind me,
stalking what I read and write.
He has no words of encouragement
and offers no kindly understanding.
Instead, he growls every line
at me and in the night-time
he says—and I issue no prompt—
“Your days are numbered.
Your life is a quarter done with,
everyone you know is old
before his time, and you,
so serious, don’t even know
I’m only one of many fictions
in the world.”