Past midnight
I awaken: the daily mask
that I left on the nightstand’s
gone —

I can hear one of my fictional characters
typing somewhere;
I’ll bet he
has it on.

He is creating
a fictional character.
I can tell by the tempo —
he’s killing those keys.

When he’s done
I will take my mask back.
I’ll put it on, although as always
I’ll struggle to breathe.

It’s hard to understand
how someone I made up
handles my day-face so well
he can make up another:

my myth
is taking over
my life, as if I were being kept
by my own lie of a brother.

He’s better at being me
than I thought.
I built him well, it seems,
and he’s caught my spark

for creating.  I think I’ll roll over
and maybe skip living tomorrow.
Let the two of them handle it.  
I think I like it better here — 

breathing calmly, listening to myself in the dark.