All that's left behind

eight

I feel like I'm in a fog.
It lurks at the corners of my mind, twisting the unfamiliar into
horribly grotesque figures
waiting to strike.
It makes me retreat into myself,
where there's a small circle of light,
of familiarity,
of things that I know will never change.
I have good days,
and then I have bad days.
But the worst part is when
the fog seeps into the light,
tainting even the familiar
and good.
I don't know what's real
and what's not real
and I start to question
everything
I've
ever
known.