Sylvanna Devlin

Driven into a froth, pushed past the point of madness anyone would struggle to bite their tongue, keep their volume under control. Or at least one of these things.

So much at the tip, nastiness others would delight in. It’s not that such things never occur to me.

It’s that words have consequences.

I keep dissociating from the undercurrent of suffering that lingers below when identity thieves open their mouths.

And then there’s her.

One of us gets louder if driven to a froth. (Me). She gets cruel.

I am going back to coiling my fuse at my feet again.

But I am a bit fed up.

Her expertise in reactive abuse wounds me so thoroughly, life doesn’t seem entirely preferable.

Though if I can’t get to safety a brain tumor might (might) take care of that for me.

I am a writer. If I have four years left to live I would really like to see how much I could produce despite PTSD and the harassment of unpracticed individuals who don’t see the problem in reducing my work to an 8th grade level.

Apparently my books are too advanced for the doppelgänger. Why does she bother trying to steal that which she’s not even capable of understanding?

There’s a me. A writer of 38 years- starting with pencils.

And “she” is some lazy individual good at lying and demolishing a reputation. But not writing.