It started with two antique dolls.

No names. No warnings. Just glass eyes and the kind of silence that watches.

Since then, I’ve been missing time.

Waking up in clothes I don’t remember putting on.

Eating meals I don’t recall making.

Smiling with someone else’s mouth.

My therapist says it’s dissociation. A trauma response.

But trauma doesn’t leave bite marks on your thighs.

Doesn’t whisper in your voice.

Doesn’t make your hands move without permission.

They say I’m unraveling.

But I’m not so sure.

Because someone is taking care of me.

Feeding me. Bathing me. Touching me like they own every inch of skin I used to call mine.

And when I close my...

It started with two antique dolls.

No names. No warnings. Just glass eyes and the kind of silence that watches.

Since then, I’ve been missing time.

Waking up in clothes I don’t remember putting on.

Eating meals I don’t recall making.

Smiling with someone else’s mouth.

My therapist says it’s dissociation. A trauma response.

But trauma doesn’t leave bite marks on your thighs.

Doesn’t whisper in your voice.

Doesn’t make your hands move without permission.

They say I’m unraveling.

But I’m not so sure.

Because someone is taking care of me.

Feeding me. Bathing me. Touching me like they own every inch of skin I used to call mine.

And when I close my eyes, I feel them watching.

Loving.

Waiting.

The world used to worship them.

Now, they worship me.

Maybe I’m insane.

Maybe I’m possessed.

Or maybe this is what devotion really feels like.

Either way… my body isn’t mine anymore.

And the worst part?

I’m starting to like it.