Conspirator.

You've asked me this question before. I woke like any other morning, not exactly refreshed from the night before. My thoughts were fragile, edgy. It felt as though they would jump and run without warning. I should've known then what was going to happen. I walked into the kitchen, waving my arms languidly. The plate I saw on the table could have been a message, I told you this all before. At this point, I heard it again. I realized with a sinking feeling that the neuroleptics weren't effective, and my arms fell to my sides, resigned to the voice I heard. I stopped myself for a moment, thinking These things are supposed to happen to other people, minorities and businessmen walking dark, wet streets to meet whores, homeless men with signs that lie about Vietnam, people who live alone with bare lightbulbs hanging from their wire through a ragged hole in the ceiling. So it came, and i realized how much I missed it. It reminded me, gently, lovingly, like a whisper from a lover who'd been abroad for months that I needed to tell you about it, because it knew you. What do you mean, what voice? You hear it just as I do. What? Now you're trying to confuse me. I know you hear it, you're probably just ignoring it. It will make you understand that you have been holding it back. For all those years that I ignored the voice, I felt the pressure building inside of me, I felt the eyes watching from beyond the other side of curtains, and the eyes had voices as well, each left and right was the sound of the microwaves and the humming and the whirring clicking of those teeth. and they had eyes too you know, always watching me and able to see with those thousand eyes the images that i locked into my head, the secret smiles of when i knew the name of happiness and they took them from me you know they took the pictures from my head and pasted them up onto the walls with condensed milk for glue they walked crowds of nosy tourists through and showed them my shameful thoughts and you know that condensed milk always makes them stick better and longer so that when you try to take them down they tear into a million tiny pieces so i pulled them down fast so fast my hands blurred and when i counted one million they fell to the ground in a pile and all those pieces of those pictures from my head have eyes and teeth and voices too don't you know it's always the same with all those hundred voices and pictures that are moving around my face but always laughing at me and making me do things like wash my hands and wash my hands and wash my hands and what? what? what? what? can you hear it? can you hear it?