obsessive presences

Hands chasing me through the corridors, I constantly flee, feigning blindness to every palm that brushes against or seeks my body. Perhaps they are cries for help, not for them, but for me. I avoid the slightest contact with every finger that reaches for my skin. I try to escape their touch at all costs, forgetting the burden on my body. I glance back and see my body lying there, surrounded by cold hands that hold me back. I feel their touch on my skin, but I see my body in the distance. Partly guilty of having been caught, complicit in this supposed act of help that drives me mad. At last, I have lost my mind, though I can see it in the distance, but it no longer belongs to me.