6. Everything is slightly behind glass.
The sounds.
The air.
The people who try to reach me.
Their words ripple
but never break the surface.

6

4. Not gone —
just misplaced,
like I set myself down somewhere
and forgot where.

5

2. There’s a weight in my chest
that isn’t heavy enough to name,
but it’s always there,
like background radiation,
a hum under everything.

4

3. I do the dishes,
fold the clothes,
turn in the assignment,
answer the question right —
and no one notices
I’m missing.

4

10. And sometimes I don’t.
And I keep moving anyway.

4

1. Some days I move without permission.
My body remembers the steps —
wake, wash, work,
but I don’t.

2

5. I catch my reflection in a window
and it startles me.
Not because I look bad —
but because for a second
I don’t look like anyone at all.

2

7. It’s not sadness exactly —
I’d almost prefer that.
At least sadness means
something is still alive enough to ache.

2

8. This is the absence of ache.
The blank hum of a refrigerator at 3 a.m.
The motion of my hands
doing what they’ve always done —
earning just enough
to stay afloat in a body
that forgot how to want.

2

9. Sometimes I whisper my own name
to remember it still fits.
Sometimes I press my fingers into my wrist
just to see if I pulse.

2