Split

I walked the streets,

but no one noticed her madness,

my heart pounded obsessively in my chest,

upset in the soul but quiet on the outside.

No eyes couldn't crack her armor to reach me,

but if it’d have been possible,

how much pain they’d seen behind my smile.

I've never been normal, I've always known, you don't need to tell me: I know.

People didn't talk to me, they looked down, I know, I noticed.

They said I was crazy, maybe I am, but not me.

I am not crazy, I am normal, I am a normal person. I eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, wash, read, draw and listen to music: I'm no different from others.

But she does. She is crazy, she is different. Shewho lives with me, in me. That person who is violent, antisocial, emotionless: she is crazy.

I loved my family, they were the only ones who cared about me, but she didn't care.

Every day I came back home, I had to put on bandages and plasters.

She started beating everyone up, but she had never hurt badly anyone.

Maybe she hates me.

That day she had lost, she had been beaten. I felt her anger burning my body, I felt that something was wrong, more than usual.

She got home first and waited for her.

I remember it, you know? Mom came back from work and put her bag on the table like she always did, then she called me.

But I wasn't there.

She grabbed mom by the neck and squeezed, squeezed.

I cried, I wanted her to stop, but she didn't listen to me. I pleaded and pleaded, but she didn't stop.

I felt something break and then she dropped mom to the floor like a lifeless puppet.

She...no, I had killed a living being.

I held someone else's destiny in my hands.

And this thing filled me with a disconcerting adrenaline that filled my stomach until it reached my mouth and covered it with a smile.

I laughed. 

I don't know why.

But inside I felt her:

"You liked it," she said.

And I laughed.

I looked at my mother's body, looked at her eyes devoid of the sparkle of life.

I had killed someone with my hands.

And I laughed.

My mother's red cheeks were no longer red, there was no longer my mother, just a corpse.

And I laughed.

My mother was no longer there, she was just a puppet.

And I played with the puppet.

I just wish that could all be a bad dream, but it's not. I haven't seen the blue of the sky since that day. 

I don't remember what flowers smell like, or the pages of books, or my shampoo.

I no longer remember the melody of music, the taste of pizza.

I just remember every crack in the white walls that surrounded me.

They said that one day I could go home, but… how many years have gone by?

I was 17, how old am I now? Twenty? Twenty-one?

Does it really matter? No...

Not much ... she won't let me out.

She would be willing to break my bones but to make me succeed in my intent.

She won’t let me out.