Nyctophobic in Training

        The picking at my fingers has begun, according to the open scabs on my thumb and index finger, the sun is under its covers. 

        The cracking of my joints has commenced, a similar symphony of light switches being molested is echoed throughout the house. 

        Perhaps all these years of seeing things I wish were real have manifested into seeing things whom they wish were real. 

        The 90 degree turns of my neck lynch to quick assumptions, but it doesn't make a cracking noise, all the lights are off. 

        *jump scare*

This poem is about: 
Me

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