There’s a film that covers these eyes,
I swear they’re for someone else, exempt.
What passes through them flips in real time.
I’m seeing the world, but not as it’s meant.

I squint tightly and then I try to focus,
But when I look, things are foreign and bleak.
Reality delays, shifting right out the gate—
Most likely to no one else living but me.

My hands feel elastic, they extend too far,
Like they belonged to someone that flew.
I only know I exist by the scars—
As I constantly move but never move.

I talk, but my voice feels mechanic,
Like chewing tinfoil by planned mistake.
Each word I say is a rented sound,
A dial tone that belongs to my ache.

The people pass like afterglow—
They laugh like old, distorted cassettes,
The ones that sound like a broken record
Stuck on the song I need to forget.

I wear my face like costume paint—
A cracked veneer. No, I can't explain.
Its smiles are crooked; they fold and break,
Like it only exists for perception’s sake.

The mirror, it flinches when I start to pace.
My reflection’s hand, not clenched like my fist—
It seems we’re confused with our actual space,
Two ghosts unsure that exist.

The mirror, it paces. Making me flinch.
It seems we’re confused as to who owns the space,
My reflection’s hand is clenched but not mine.
Two ghosts unsure why we're sharing a face.