Something rose on my side of the bed

Grabbed my arm, chest and head

And pulled me farther down

Than can be believed by even me

The problem with spinning tales

To suit your every need

Is that a line can be crossed

That screams, “Not probably!”

Deceiver,Self. Self, Deceiver.

Nice to meet you. You as well.

You mean neither of you could tell?

The full scope of evil consuming you?

That’s unlikely unless you insisted.

Something rose on my side of the bed.