The fog looms behind my eyes threatening
to seep out if I widen them enough.
Yet my eyes aren’t wide at all, they’re half
closed, eyelids sinking low despite the overwhelming
rushes of air, clinking of keys, feet shuffling
a little too close and perfume forcing its way up my nostrils.
I can feel my body one moment, and in the next
it’s lost, disconnected and I’m a floating head.
A floating head with a parroting voice, a mimic,
a copycat of everything, even emotions.
Not that I don’t feel my own. Mine just won’t display.
Treeshallow Musings 