I was seven when I first heard the voices;

Seven and excited, seven and young.

I called them my friends,

Gave name to the phantoms,

Gave home to wraiths,

Seven and no longer alone

with my very own shadows and a

gift to see the dead.

I was eight when I realized

they could not be seen,

Not by anyone but me.

I was eight when a shadow gave me his smile

and told me to not be afraid.

I was eight when a shadow showed me his scars

and told me his fears, how he would

protect me when I could not protect myself.

I was eleven when I realized

that I was not 'special';

That I had no gifts.

I was eleven when I realized my phantoms

did not exist, not truly.

I was eleven when I realized I was mad

and my shadows were no more than cracked

mirrors, haunting and revealing my soul.

I was fifteen, fifteen and broken,

When white smiles became red

and the shadows I had called 'friends'

left bodies in their wake.

I was fifteen when I saw a young man hung

and a woman sliced open;

My shadow phantoms with red hands

and taunting voices.

I was sixteen when officially diagnosed,

All in one word: 'schizophrenia'.

It should have been calming,

To have a name to match to the shadows,

A reasoning behind the blood,

The answer to the longing to death.

It should have been calming

but by that time, I too saw red

and my hands were just as warm

as my phantoms.

I am seventeen, seventeen and scrambling

for reasons on why and attempts to stay sane.

I am seventeen and drugged, but my

shadows remain and they still yet whisper.

I am seventeen and I wish I could tell you

this is a work of fiction,

But even now my shadows watch,

and my shadows smile.