In 50 Words, Gaslit, becca-tapert-QofjUnxy9LY-unsplash


I creep through a routine search of your things. Laptop, pockets, wallet, your phone. Eyes frantic dry, I search for what I hope is not there. The madness over, I vow never to return to this degradation. Then the green bile rises again and whispers, “Come, you are not done.”