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.