I feel as though a part of me is missing, leaving, fleeting, one foot out the door.
I once had a certain piece that isn't with me anymore.
I'm half a man I'm half alive.
Something broke and drifted down the river. Leaving me desolate. Silently abandoning me as so I never noticed something was missing. Floating in some other place. Left my half of my mind alone. Leaving the air just a little bit quieter and my thoughts just a little deficient.

I feel as though there is someone in here with me.
Who sounds just like me but thinks differently.
Something that screeches and prowls and hangs around corners breathing loudly.
Something evil.
Something that scares me in the tongue of hopeless addicts, tortured abused and *****, making two wrongs a right and gazing upon devastatingly desolate landscaped and calling them home.

I feel as though I'm fighting.
That each step I make is a struggle to find direction.
And each thought I have is subjective to my own mind. To my mood. To who happens to be visiting on that day. To who happens to be talking for me in that minute.
I could write one memoir today and another tomorrow.

I feel as though I'm an abstract construct.
With little grounding or meaning.
As though the world is moving through me, instead of me moving through it.
As though I were a pedestrian on my own roads, and not the lawmaker of my own city.

I feel as though I'm unfit to access interpersonal connection, as there is no accessable person to truly connect them with. As though I'm joining wires in a control room with the electricity cut.
As though I'm watching a visitor enter an empty house across the street, instead of my own, after I pointed them to it.

I feel as though my mind is full but my body empty, uninhabitable, rent too high.
Empty rooms like hosts for tenants who I care for quietly in the night and never eat with.
They all want to leave and my service is shoddy and confusing.
There isn't enough room but there's far too much.
I feel as though even those closest too me can't fill me up.
As though I'm searching for someone, something, that will.

I feel as though my life drags itself along by its toes, and I lose my hearing more and more each day. Its as though everything I understood has become a mixed metaphor and moved seats and it's eroding and destroying me in a way only the spiteful can destroy.
I am the villain I am the protagonist but it is not my book and I don't know the author, nevermind trust them.
And I feel as though I'm holding on for deer life as the plot progresses, and I feel as though I don't like where it's going.