The Man, the Bitch and Me

The Imaginary Man is my biggest critic. He pinches my love handles and laughs. Prods my cellulite and scoffs. Doubles over at my provocative efforts. 'Ha ha! Stop please! Your desperation is too funny!' The Imaginary Man Predicts me like a text 'message recieved' You're wasting your time. Obviously. My mind runs the marathon and before I can stop to take breath I'm there. Mental Captivity. The silent bitch speaks a language with her eyes. A prolonged stare an 'I thought she glared' Each flicker of an eye, delivers another diminishing blow. I'm the only one that understands what the silent bitch says. Obviously. Solemn torture. Each blow given by me delivered back to sender.

I need to be free

Emancipated from me.