There are times,
Quite frequent now,
When I will glace down at my hands.
My hands?
They don’t look like my hands.
They bend when I tell them to.
They obey my will,
But these can’t be mine.
Look at them.
And then, dizzy,
I look at my arms,
My feet, my stomach,
These alien hands search this body,
Tell me what they’ve found.
Collarbones, shoulder blades, muscled knots.
Not mine.
This isn’t me. This can’t be me.
And then, nervous,
I find a mirror,
But it could be a window
For all I recognize.
The face is a stranger’s
These can’t be my nose, my eyes.
This skin isn’t mine.
I’m lost in a foreign land.
I’d scream but
I’ve forgotten how to speak.
I’d hyperventilate, but I
Don’t know how to breathe.
I need to break free from this.
Thick skin and heavy bones
Ribs like boarded-up broken windows,
And then, terrified,
This poor body starts to tremble.
Someone else’s hands touch someone else’s face,
And come away wet.
Ionized water.
I’m crying.
And then, finally,
I’m home.
YOU ARE READING
the angst album
Não FicçãoA collection of the little things I write, some poems, some those scrolling paragraphs I can't ever seem to escape. Here is my heart, and since you are a stranger you cannot hurt me with it. Vote if you like, don't vote if you don't, hell you could...
