the hands / the bonds / the pages—  
never mine  
but bound to me like scripture I forgot to believe in.  

the verse never repeats,  
but always paints  
in colors I don’t remember choosing.  

mirrors offer nothing but  
faces that echo mine  
without ever becoming me.  

torn into fugues / scattered into names—  
each one dragging me somewhere new,  
directionless,  
but always away  
from wherever I might be.

I didn’t write this for the healed.  
I wrote this for the haunted—  
for those who stare at ceiling cracks  
like they’re reading scripture  
from a collapsed cathedral.  

These pages aren’t a map to recovery.  
They’re the wreckage.  
The bloodstains.  
The echo where a name used to fit.

Each poem a pulse.  
Each line a fragment.  
Not a solution—  
but proof the soul still bleeds in shape.

So if you're holding this,  
you’re not alone in the ruin.  
Welcome.  
Take off your armor.  
We only write in exposed nerves here.

The space between me and myself  
drifts—  
like a lucid dream  
leaking out the back of my skull.

I watch my thoughts  
float toward stars that don't remember  
where I end.  
Where I ever began.

I'm stretched across the cosmos,  
limbs limp in vacuum,  
the gravity of depression  
coiling tight around my ankles—  
its pull quiet,  
but absolute.

Reality thins  
like skin over old scars.  
My mind—a kaleidoscope of fractures.  
Each disorder twisting the glass,  
each diagnosis tinting the view  
until even my reflection feels pixelated.

This fog...  
it’s not metaphor.  
It’s a beast.  
Thick. Grey. Permanent.  
It wraps around my face  
until even breath  
becomes a rumor.

The lines blur.  
Days collapse.  
I forget the taste of clarity.  
Did I ever have a name?  
Did I ever live inside this body  
with certainty?

I am orbiting myself—  
too far to reach,  
too familiar to forget.

The silence in here  
has weight.  
It hums.  
It judges.  
It catalogs my fade  
in decibels too quiet for anyone else to hear.

Memories fade like echo trails—  
burnt-out signals  
from versions of me  
that never made it back home.

I keep screaming  
into the night of my own skull—  
but the signal never reaches Earth.  
No one hears.  
Not even me.

I am the void  
after the story ends.  
I am the silhouette  
of a soul that got left behind  
when the body forgot how to stay.

This isn’t a breakdown.  
This is drift.  
This is what happens  
when gravity gives up on you.

Everything’s swirling beneath  
the weight of borrowed names.  
I stumble through tides  
too high to outrun,  
but still try,  
until I’m seamlessly drowning  
in the undertow of selves  
I never asked to wear.

Thoughts burn out  
like half-smoked cigarettes—  
spent, bitter, and barely mine.

Is this lucid dreaming  
or suffocating memory?  
I can’t tell where I’ve already turned,  
only that I’m back  
in the fog again.  
Dazed.  
Unmoored.  
Wearing too many faces  
for any of them to feel like mine.

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.