The air is present, but off in weight—
It breathed beneath my dragging tread.
Each step mistook itself for fate,
My inner voice spoke, “Don't breathe, instead.”

The moon, it winked, then turned to ash—
Its glow, a trick. An enchanted claim.
The sidewalk split like I had crashed,
a static god without a name.

The faces turned but couldn’t track
my bent proportions, preset loops.
We saw each other—witnessed lack—
their auras steamed like data soup.

The neighbor outside was made of code,
his mumbles stitched with minor flaws.
He walked a lagging, crooked load—
a hologram without a cause.

My name collapses if spoken twice,
a sound that doesn’t mean a thing.
Identity—just loaded dice
thrown blind across a buffering screen.

Store signs were different at second glance—
one blink and “Pharmacy” was “Control.”
The cars reversed their motion trance,
passing through buildings they'd passed just before.

The pigeons froze mid-flight like glass,
then shattered the moment they caught my eye.
She glitched—revealing skin’s disguise—
and smiled with teeth she didn't try.

My arms were pulsing with phantom blood,
my ribs were cords I couldn’t play.
Each thought I had was owned by flood—
I feared that death would find its way.

The walls were off-white, shaped oblong,
they fluxed with math beneath the paint.
This world’s too smooth, too clean, too long—
its holiness grown dim and faint.

So, I became something unglued,
a breach inside the program’s lie.
Not mad—just deeply over clued,
I feel—I know—that nothing dies.

This room was taught to hold its breath,
When I return through sideways doors.
It never asks for confessions or depth—
Just witnesses how silence feels as thorns.

The world outside is daytime hinged.
But my world was stitched in neon dusk.
A phantom fang lives deep within
And bites each time I build my trust.

I move in patterns, accidentally bound—
In rituals of coping that lasted too long.
The hours know where I'll be found—
Beside myself, unwillingly wrong.

The ***** laundry I clean but don't.
A second shadow nailed at my heel.
The lamp that needs a light disagrees.
Between being fake and being who I feel.

I keep it clean—or clean enough—
My eyes are dry; my voice is clear.
My morbid truth, dressed in common fluff.
Always finds a way to disappear.

The soul—if that’s still something I hold—
Is brined in need, like selfish sin.
This isn’t wanted or considered bold.
  It's survival masquerading as skin.

I never meant to dig this much,
My lack of harmony buried in song.
But a body that's balanced upon a crutch
Is still a body—just not as strong.

I’ve made a friend with myself detached,
Though he eats a lot more than he feeds.
Whispers like he knows he's an accident.
This teaches me, what my own silence means

The habits aren't even the worst of me—
It’s what remains when they're gone.
The way my lungs choose not to breath.
Choosing not to breathe all on their own.

So, I exist in the lowercase,
Half-typed and never quite complete.
But even glitches need their place—
So here I am, on loop. On repeat…

Should oaths may fade into
obscurity in epochs of spaces
Between certainties; its presence
remains unfaded.

As the season changes
In its own right,
An unwavering being still.

Would a board game without a goal
Still be one you'd consider playing
That seems to be the reality of existence
Obliviously wandering in hopes of purpose
Without any evidence of its confirmation
Then who's to say which path is truly right
When the destination is the same on both ends