It's gloomy in here, lonely, and dusty. It's always been like this, making our skin dark and cold. I've never seen myself in a mirror, but I can feel myself, covered in scales with something wet, seeping out of the ridges. I wish I can smell your blood, but I can't smell, only see and feel. This place is tiresome, it's limited of space. I need to get out.
I could be residing in the corners of your room. Or perhaps inside your cupboard; I like it there, it's warm and sturdy. Sometimes, I inhabit your bookshelves, behind the tiny space between the shelf itself and the wall. Oh, but there's this one place that I like the most! Oh boy! I bet you already have an idea? Sure thing it's under your bed; that toasty, cozy bed of yours.
But it's boring now, I'm starting to hate this confinement. So I take a peek sometimes. I've been observing you for some time now, I know you can feel me staring. You've seen these deep, red, insidious eyes a few times before. I envy you, honestly, because you have a wide space in your home, unlike me. This confined, damned place makes me feel anxious.
So now, I hope you understand. I've been enclosed for too long, maybe we can switch places, yeah? I'll just have to tie you up in here, wait until I become tiresome of imitating you.
Jeez, I hate small spaces.
