Was it all just a
sophisticated déjà vu?
The things she had seen before
was perhaps just a
confused hippocampus?

It’s not that I roll back my eyes
and let her demon possess me
Our deal is that I
create new stories
and narratives
from fragments of her life
She holds the seeds in her hand
and I tell her
where to disperse them

I am her ghostwriter
But she is the real ghost
Our roles really confuse me sometimes

When things get to my head
I like to chew eucalyptus gum
and light some incense
that smells like a herbalist
got abducted by a team
of researchers from Primark
to formulate
a scent for their
loungewear section
It’s not very far off
I actually got my incense
from the TK Maxx-store
opposite my flat
It was just there,
in the abandoned mess
on the floor,
a few months back,
when our pipes had started to freeze

Today I light the incense
and I tell myself;
I need to set my own boundaries
I make time for her
similar to my therapist
making time for me
in their calendar
With patience,
and a firm border,
and not with bewildered compassion

When I once ask her about all of this
composition of self,
she tells me this: