It grows difficult to differentiate between fantasy and reality, with made up scenarios lingering in my mind.

But it’s a secret to hold, something that is mine alone,
and for whatever reasons my natural tendency to compartmentalize is roaring up again.

But it doesn’t matter, because none of this is real. Right? It never is.
The obsessions come and go, they grow and wither and new ones will take their place.
It is simply my nature.

The ugly voice that speaks, slow and sludging, says that this is an indicator of something wrong.
I’d like to ignore it entirely, this ugly voice, as I very often do, but...

But what if the voice is right?
What if the thoughts and urges that I’ve always chalked up to cycles and hormones is simply who I am?
Who I am at the core, in the compartments where all of the dirty secrets are stored?

What if I am simply not done growing yet?
To be even more bleak: what if my compartment of dirty secrets is not done growing?

To which of course I will respond and say that my willpower is stronger than any sludgy voice, 
and that is all that life - and our choices therein - comes down to.

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