Disoriented beneath overstimulation.  
Voices hum like glass under pressure—  
etching through my thoughts.  
Sensations blur into splinters,  
emotion refracted,  
core unraveling.

Silence weighs fossil-deep,  
layered under memories  
that calcified too soon.  
Truth endures like a fracture—  
symbolic, visible,  
threaded seam by seam  
through the spine of me.

I catalogue collapse  
in mirror shards,  
each one echoing alone  
in the distance.

My head ticks and tocks  
like a grandfather clock  
with a grieving jaw.  
Hours droop.  
Time slouches inward,  
skipping stones across memory  
I swore I’d drowned.

There’s no forward in this place—  
just loops pulled taut  
and calendars  
that flinch when I turn the page.

I stopped marking days  
when they stopped holding shape.  
Now time arrives  
already exhausted.

It used to race.  
Now it recoils  
each time I try  
to move on.

Shadows in my chest  
raw and unspoken,  
panic tracing circles  
through a throat too tight to scream.

Every mirror offers a different name.  
None of them mine.

I swap faces mid-sentence,  
rotate smiles like lock combinations—  
hoping one of them fits the door  
back to who I was.

Time stutters.  
My voice comes out  
wearing someone else’s rhythm.  
Even breath feels borrowed.

“Are you okay?” they ask.  
I nod in the language  
of collapse.

It’s not pretending.  
It’s preserving.  
It’s prayer.

This is my psalm—  
not sung,  
but screamed through cracked glass  
with every rotation  
of the mask.

Another day—  
heads down, no one meets my gaze.  
Fingertips glow blue from too-bright screens,  
thumbs moving faster than thought.

We’ve replaced eye contact  
with read receipts.  
Affection  
with filtered selfies  
and half-typed replies.

I haunt timelines  
that never notice.  
Scroll through memories  
we never made  
but somehow still miss.

Every ping  
feels like hope—  
every silence  
a knife with a quiet ringtone.

I try to speak,  
but my voice autocorrects  
to nothing.

We are present,  
but not here.  
Together,  
but only in algorithm.

And even then—  
you don’t see me.  
Just another  
digital ghost  
you once knew.

"Hey doc, I came in feeling kind of strange..."

My thoughts skip  
like scratched discs—  
looping refrains  
I don’t remember writing.  
Someone moved the furniture  
inside my mind.

Eyes follow  
that aren’t there.  
Or are.  
They blink  
just after I do.

I’ve started measuring silence  
between footsteps  
I didn’t take.  
Mirrors hesitate now—  
they show me,  
but too slowly.  
Like they’re checking  
who I’ll be this time.

Every word I say  
feels recorded.  
Every truth I try to speak  
static-warped,  
time-delayed.

It’s not fear  
if it turns out real, right?

The walls are breathing  
or maybe I am.  
Hard to tell anymore.  
Even time flinches  
when I look at it wrong.

If this is normal,  
I need a new diagnosis.

Why do I even bother anymore.  
This ache’s been hiding beneath sweet veneers,  
a bitterness that won’t dissolve.  
It clings—  
festering near the heart,  
sinking into my veins  
like it belongs there.

Thoughts spiral,  
spliced with voices  
that tangle and echo until  
I can’t feel the edges of what’s real.  
I linger too long in fractured reflections,  
where clarity used to live.

The air’s thick—  
it steals my voice  
before I even speak.  
I’m fading from the foreground,  
becoming background noise  
in a world that doesn’t blink.

Everything stares back  
with blank expressions  
and unfamiliar eyes.

Pulse frozen—  
iced veins mid-break,  
brain flooding with fragments  
of fractured light and wired noise.

Every color comes too loud.  
Every breath enters sharp-edged.  
The sky is too close.  
The floor doesn’t hold.

I stagger through a maze  
built of memory and migraine—  
walls shift shape  
each time I blink.

I am too many signals,  
too little pattern.  
A scream poised  
inside a prism.

Please—  
just one thought  
that doesn’t bloom sideways.

Just one silence  
that doesn’t shimmer wrong.