I enter the room
And the air splits
A thin trembling seam
Between who I was
And who I refuse to be
My twin is already there
Assembled from old sins
And half rotted instincts
A cathedral of bad habits
Wearing my face
Like a stolen replic
He sits in my chair
As if it were a throne
Built from every time
I bowed to fear
The therapist is silent
A witness carved from dusk
Letting the ritual unfold
The way storms unfold
Inevitable
Ancient
Earned
My twin rises
His shadow rises with him
A second spine
Made of all the nights
I swallowed myself
To stay alive
He is the archivist
Of my worst versions
He is the curator
Of my old wounds
He is the priest
Of my self betrayal
And I
I am the heretic
Come to burn the temple
We circle each other
Like two moons
Caught in the same orbit
Each waiting for the other
To fall out of the sky
The killing is not a strike
It is a choice
A slow deliberate
Unthreading
I peel his fingers
From my throat
I take back the names
I let him carve into me
I reclaim the bones
He taught to bend
With every breath I claim
He flickers
A candle realizing
The room no longer needs
Its light
He dissolves
Like salt in warm water
Like a prophecy
That finally outlived
Its purpose
The therapist watches
As the last of him
Drifts away
A final exhale
From a ghost
I no longer house
Their nod is small
But it lands
Like a bell struck clean
You didn’t kill him
The room whispers
You simply stepped
Into the version of yourself
He could never follow
And in that quiet
In that sacred afterglow
Of self‑rebirth
You know
You are ready
For Therapy Part 14.