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.