Long ago I spotted It: my double—every feature, perfect. It grinned as if to say, “We start and only end
when one is dead.” I swallowed all the pills prescribed, agonizing how to hide when It knew to look, and
running was doomed since It owned my stride.
I turned my home into a trap; beneath my bed I slept, and did the opposite of what I’d do, and lived,
instead, a stranger. Oh, years did pass, how I grew old, and wisdom made this true: I knew I’d sold the
good in me for time. I wonder, would It say the same? Having spent the bulk of years spoiling joy with
fear, I wished—almost—It would come at last. When quite by chance I spied It.
Unaware, It laughed beside a family of its own. How strange this felt, to barely recognize me in that way:
so content.

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