She knows what I can do. She knows very well what happens each morning when she washes her face and stomps back to her room to put me on. She feels the pain, the crunch of bones as I take over. She's playing with fire as I manipulate her fingers, her feet, her facial expressions, her outward emotions. If it shows on her face, it's all my doing. Inside she's a whirlwind, uncontrollable and dangerous. That's why she has me. If anyone ever found out what happens behind she would be caught and thrown somewhere dark and deep.

           I'm the cynical protection she provided herself long ago, taking a life all on my own. I tell her to smile, to frown, to hit, to yell, to hurt, to laugh. All she can do while I control is cry and love and feel. She seeps through sometimes, her real essence drips through the cracks that I have acquired over the years of use. I'm the stable quick-fix of her weakness. I only come off when she has the energy to pry me with her fingernails, the ones I bite off during the day using her anxiety as fuel.

           To her, I'm security and I feel it won't be long until I mold with her forever.