MY ROOMMATE

I have a roommate — I spend every day
with him. He eats all my food, wears all my
clothes and never picks up after himself.

He doesn't like me writing or drawing. 
He left just now, but he'll be back soon
— so lets make this quick, shall we?

My roommate loves sharp things —
knifes, razors... his own finger nails.
He doesn't love me but he sticks around
because he knows I'll end up paying his
share of the rent at the end of the month.

I've tried kicking him out, but he
enjoys the hate he indulges in.

I've tried killing him, but it never works.
I've stabbed him. I've drowned him.
I've tried burning the house down,
but he just laughs, only to return in
a couple days to rinse and repeat.

So I tired reasoning with him.
He agreed we should go see a
therapist. The doctor told us he
was the problem. He dragged me
out of the building, back to my bed. 
My mother is crying.

My roommate's name
is Bryce Willey. 
He's the other me —
the fake me.

I think he's planing a mutiny.
He's making me hate me.
He's making me love pain.
He's making me, not me.
Hes at the door — gotta go

-Bryce Willey