I did see a therapist. Regularly. She knew about the men, confusion, lists, playlists, fantasy, creative process but I had abandoned her during my most manic stage. For three months, I was on my own. It was during that time I began to explore the benefits of necromancy without a guide and black magic. I used to light the whole apartment with candles and turn off all the lights, sit at the altar facing the front door and begin to draw it with my fingers. It was a vision I was crafting. Me and a man in the woods with a wall separating us and to get by I crafted a giant spell that I would wrap around Philadelphia.
I began to leave things in parks, buried in the dirt. My rose of jericho shell, a crystal, two crystals, a lucky penny. I walked those streets daily dropping totems, asking for favor, offering sacrifrice.
“Your house is haunted because you opened tons of portals.”
I knew I had haunted my own house but it didn’t make it less terrifying. The reader eyed me.
“You have the power to close them.”
I didn’t tell my therapist everything it’s true. The night I drew the front door spell was the first time my own words entranced me. Cast a net, catch a fish. Cast a bigger net, catch the ocean.
“Bite your tongue until bleeds,” the reader told me. “You are used to treachery but these are modern times. We are no longer in treacherous times.”
This city owes me.