MIcroperforation

pressure. pressure. pressure. pressure everywhere i look. everywhere i sense. inside and out. i feel so inside out. inside inside inside inside inside OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT. i want to scream at you. GET OUT OF HERE. NONE OF THIS IS YOURS. my brain is exploding from ALL. THE. PRESSURE. you treat it as yours regardless. am i angry? afraid? or just eternally thankful that you're taking over the situation. i make lists to feel in control. haven't completed a list in weeks. i can't. my control is so broken that i don't even know where to begin. you're not helping, you know. oh, by the way, GET OUT. inside out. inside out. inside out. my foot's asleep. all i do is sleep. meh. am i? am i? ami? who's amy? is she me? am i me? i am he is you are he is you are me and we are all together. are we? are we? are we? we are. GET OUT.

where's the truth? i wonder. somewhere under the sheet music, you reply, gesturing vaguely about the little room. where are we? why is everything covered in sheet music? and did i really ask that very first question out loud? i didn't think i did. huh. i start to shift through the music, searching for the truth that you've always said is there but i can never find. soon i find myself humming. i pick up a piece of paper and realise the notes printed there are the same ones coming from me. i've never heard it before, yet i know it better than my own name. what's my name? not amy. who is amy? still humming. realising all the music is this music. a huge continuation. what is this? i ask you. no reply. i turn to find you've gone. the door is locked behind you. and i'm left. left with the truth that was in front of my face the whole time. go figure.