there is no grand theme,
my skin feels unreal
and my life feels like a daydream i
could’ve easily conjured on a tuesday afternoon,
i sit myself down and look through my own eyes
staring back at me,
pretending
pretentious,
pretending,
that i am being perceived.
if i stare long enough
i could do that thing i did when i was nine
look long enough until you feel the haze
of dissociation
and panic as you realize
how conscious you really are
it’s nothing you can adequately describe,
when you’re as bad a writer as i am,
but it feels for a moment,
that you exist outside of your own mind,
the panic washes over you
when you realize how stuck you are
with this body, this name, and this life
little of what you have chosen, and
a future-load of what you will have to choose
i believe in a god
but this form of existence
is like the sound of tires screeching on a looped playlist,
there’s a nine-year old girl inside my head
and she’s been screaming for years
ever since she realized
she will still be me for a lifetime.
beyond 