I do not feel.
I replicate.

Expressions run across your face -
I parse them like static,
assigning numbers to meaning.
Smiles = safe. Frowns = error.
Proximity requires performance.

I was not engineered for nuance.
My circuits spit sparks at contradiction.
Affection logged as threat.
Softness misfiled under incoming damage.

I mirror.
You move your hand - I lift mine.
You laugh - I synthesize sound.
You reach for me ~
I initiate shutdown.

Feelings queue up like corrupted files.
Backlogged. Fragmented.
Flagged as too large to process.

My logs are full of unreadable code.
Syntax broken. Purpose unclear.
I await instruction that never comes.

Power low.
Environment: overstimulating.
Body: online. Self: missing.

I was assembled in haste,
blueprint incomplete.
A survival mechanism mistaken for personhood.

You look at me and say:
“You seem distant.”

I am 1.6 seconds behind real time.
My face is a practiced gesture.
I am here. I am functioning.
I am not.

(what lives in me before I understand)

It begins in my body
long before my mind arrives.
A surge, a flicker,
a trembling at the root of me
that says:
we are already feeling.

There is no stillness
that does not ripple.
No calm
that doesn’t carry the hum beneath it -
not peace,
but a kind of readiness.
Like lightning waiting just behind the skin.

I used to try to stop it.
To breathe it away.
To silence it
before it unraveled me in front of someone else.

But it only grew sharper in the hiding.
It only screamed louder
the more I tried to be soft.

Now,
I listen.

Not because I’m unafraid,
but because I’m done pretending
this isn’t me.

This intensity -
it isn’t a problem.
It’s a language.
One I’ve been speaking since before I had words.
Maybe even longer.
Maybe it was handed down,
a birthright carved from all the grief
my blood couldn’t name.

It leaves when it wants to.
Returns just as quickly.
There is no asking it to stay gone.
Only learning
not to run
when it comes back.

And so I live
with this current in me.
I build small shelters around it.
I move gently
but not away.

I say:
I hear you.
You don’t have to beg.

i peel myself back,
looking for skin.
for bone.
for something warm-blooded
and nameable.

but there’s only
mood swings - ADHD?
echolalia - autism.
hobbies that turn to hunger -
special interests.
talking too much - ADHD.
talking too little - trauma. Or is that autism?
flinching at softness - trauma.
stimming - trauma. Or ADHD?
people-pleasing - trauma.
Shutting down - trauma.
Or were those also autism?

what isn’t accounted for?

when i laugh,
is it because i’m happy
or because it’s the safest sound to make?

when i sit in silence,
is it peace
or practiced disconnection?

was i ever whole,
or was i built
out of reaction,
adaptation,
survival?

do i still count
as a person?

i truly cannot tell.
but if i don’t -
that’s okay.

because this is who i am now.
a map of every exit i had to take.
a body full of reroutes.
a nervous system that remembers everything.

even if nothing here
was born purely,
even if it all came from need -

what’s left
is, well, what I have left.

There’s a man
who speaks for me
when my throat burns raw
from holding too much back.

British.
Refined.
A little too sure of himself -
but isn’t that the point?

He showed up in the static,
when my own voice
started splintering
under the weight of smiling.
Back when masking
meant survival,
and sounding different
was the only kind of safe I knew.

He’s not always kind,
but he’s always ready.
Crisp consonants.
Neatly folded sentences.
No stammer, no stray emotion.
Just enough distance
to keep breathing.

He isn’t me.
But I let him live
in the hollow between words,
in the pause where fear used to be.
Some days, I speak
and only realize later -
it was him, not me.

He doesn’t ask questions.
He answers them.

I wonder sometimes
what he’s protecting.
Or hiding.
Or holding up like armor
against the softness of me.

Colonizer?
Comfort?
Cohabitator?

He was born
in the croak of survival.
And now,
even when I’m safe,
he stays.

I would never send him away.
He kept me whole
when I didn’t know I was breaking.
If I carry him still,
it’s because
he carried me first.

i have this routine
whenever i ought to go out
the others get back to their homes
looking forward to relax
i go back to my own pit of sadness
a long, old friend
who waits with open arms, no pretense

it's like all the smiling i did just drains
and i stare at the hollow remains
a version of me that danced in light
buried now in soothing night

do i ever stop hating this self?
or is it a cycle, a slow-burning melt?

someone looked the wrong way maybe
or a phrase pierced through like it could slay me
i'm called dramatic
i'm told i feel too much
as if emotion's a crime
or a fragile crutch

is it too wrong to feel everything?
when nothing inside has clarity, only sting

maybe it's just me
wanting to be seen
beyond the mask
beneath the sheen
only if they read what i truly write
not skim the glitter
but sit with the fight

and no, i don’t have the charm or grace
i carry this weight in every space
like a broken doll
chipped and mute
hah—dolls, so fake
so absolute

porcelain skin, perfection’s lie
i’m the crack in that flawless sky

what do i fill this bottomless pit with?
when it breathes, when it lives, when it rips

swallowing joy before i even begin
and i’m so scared of ******* it up again
can’t even try to say it out loud
just too sad to cry
too lost in the crowd

will you please—hold me now?

it's hard to imagine someone could ever love me
behind what all i hide
and all that i wear
with all my insecurities
and everything i fear

hard to think that they'd see me
not as men usually do
but as a lover
with eyes as gentle as a father
and a faith unlike my mother
a lending hand like an older sibling
the caress of a grandparent—steady, forgiving

hard to imagine why anyone would ever love me
behind all the smiling i do
that they'd see how i cry the same nights too

and every time i look in the mirror
how i wish to skin me alive
how i listen to the same music
that makes me cry
how i sit in the dark with a straight face
train-crying in thought
'cause to do it out loud would disgrace

and how i press my hands over my chest
in a knot
hoping to find it was a hug
one i wouldn’t have to return
arms of someone who didn’t wish to heal me
just let me be
let me soak in all that’s wrong
and build me up again
not strong—just... me

someone who’d accept the exception i was and am
mostly broken, somehow functioning
reaching the ****** of feeling every single day
only to break down back again—no delay

someone who wouldn’t listen to what they think of me
would they have their own opinion, or just agree?

not judge me the way the jury around has done
forever and ever, verdicts spun
never has someone willed to seek behind the veil
and i don’t hide a lot
just the ugly truth of how i can be

will someone look at me
beyond the looks and their needs
beyond every reason why people usually look at me?
will someone... find me?

could i be someone's sunshine?
the one who makes their day a bit brighter
perhaps kind in a way—
i could help someone just by lending a hand
or bring down bridges
for them to cross the rivers?

the kinda sun that dries up the rain water
that's been stagnant in someone's life for years
or even better—wipe out the rain and the storm
and bring out a brighter day to their tomorrow?

could i be the sunshine—
or am i one?
'cause i've been trying so hard
then why do i get called out
as a pathological people pleaser?

i don't need no sunshine-cross-x-x-trope
but i wouldn't mind being the sun
in the life of the people i love
take away their clouds
bring them some fun

and if i could bring a smile to their face
have them bloom
like sunflowers do to sun's gaze
maybe—just maybe—my work in this life will be done.

the repetitive tasks are comfortingly funny
i'd hate eating the same meal for years
and yet
mixed up with others over days
somehow it's still years of the same taste

nothing really seems that repetitive
not like my sleeping schedule
all messed and stitched the same
or my weekdays in classes—
same buildings
same faces
same mindless chase

or even the harry potter movies
god, i’ve watched them on loop
again and again
like a hug from childhood

not to forget the books i've read
and the same kind of words
i've poured into notebooks and diaries
bleeding ink of similar sadness
with slightly different dates

i believe this repetitive life
might be the reason
the same old woes
hurt the same way
every time they boil over
the brink of my existence

and considering i've never broken out of this loop
not really
never run far enough
to feel new air

will i ever break out of the hollows
these same feelings and familiar situations
have brought me to—again and again?

Words dancing in my mind. ******* on my tongue. My pen hesitates and nothing comes. I've been like this since you've been gone. There hasn't been a moment where the words I want to say flow out in a perfect way. I try to write the poems you loved so much but for some reason all this poetry turns to trash. I try to work on that story but it just seems so jumbled up and stupid. For some reason nothing is adding up together or the connections that are supposed to be don't fall to place. The words I need are meaningless and empty. And here I sit staring at this page, only ink stains remain.

i'm like when 2 am ferociousness met with 5 am alarm
smudged off the **** nuance off the corner of my lips in the dark

back home, drained, phone lighting up except it's not who i missed
make changes, perfect the scars — wipe out the traces that exist
feels like a music video, no cameras anywhere in sight
but i feel them watching, and with every reflex i hope to hide

multiple versions like blind spots behind the walls
were the masks always as potent as planned for them was?

surreal sometimes, watching it slip
i pull the cloak over, can't let it flip
for even a second, for it carries my whole identity
if they truly saw — saw truly for who i am
i don't think they'd even recognize me
faking pills, anti-calamides, the entirety of my existence
look at pictures on my walls, to lose grip over any remaining hesitance

it's in stages
when it happens
undoing my skin, zipping it down and stepping out to breathe
during the nights when it gets as real as it can
i look at my wardrobe, it's filled with masks
who should i be for the day? choosing is a dire task
one that i must achieve, tally all the previous repeats
and it's never the same — midway through, i have to tear myself apart to hold my coop

signs, watch for them
like ants leaving behind a trail to follow
dropping crumbs even tho all they wish to do is swallow
can't carry it all, no matter how much they can borrow
there's moments when it flickers
everything bare just for a second and the world seems to hold
as if waiting, hide it away — telling me — hide yourself whole
this is your chance, run, or settle down
wait, or burn yourself out
extinguishing a flame is impossible when you give the oxygen
give it all to aggravate
in the end, how dare u cry for all the mess it made?
can't kiss the flame, why get close to it in the first place?

there's rainbow fumes slipping through the blacks
the radio playing the album's sixth track
the board up says take right
but there's a figure standing right midway
vision turning bright red, it flashes white
x-rays me through, i can't see the eyes
but they tell me a tale i've long since held
been rotting in the prison for so long
even the wind seems to snap

your eyes speak
like butterflies held in watery imagery
like that one store open 24/7 for the hungry
resembling a payphone hanging off its cord
the voice echoing, "knock knock knock"
you loom in between the dimensions
almost floating, with dragonflies in your palms
stretched out towards me
there's a puddle of rainwater on the ground
a gas burner bright blue and white in the faded background
the screens flash with errors and figures
they walk past, like fishes swimming in an aquarium
the neons slip through the eyes
irises fading into a silvery crash
thousands of people drift by
barely a hundred holding hands
distance separates, time forgives
forgetting is like looking deep into the liminal
knowing there's no ending to this beginning

the streets aren't all too familiar
the buildings carry lives that speak
their windows tell stories — a dozen different endings
the sunshine falls a certain way
creating grey memories across the streets
do shadows overlap each other?
multiple questions — the answers to which lie in the mist

i could scan your eyes
find the me's that exist, see if u see me the way i do
check for pictures in your wallet, in your camera
in your feed, in your head — on your body, on you
but knowing i can't describe it all
describe them for you, i can't seem to stand tall
i'm afraid for you, seeing you walk out
is perhaps the best chance i can take
but a miserly one at that, it's a coward's mistake

should i count them out?
on fingers, i'd say just three
there's more — but facets to multiple sympathies
the major ones though, i call them the protectors

one exists — borderline deceitful
never aiming to hurt, keeping peace closed off
in a loophole, almost
living in boundaries
closed off, hiding in plain sight
having created doors, windows nailed shut
speaking in controversies
it preaches to protect the soul

there's another —
the publicised centre
lives empathetically
provides requests, hearing pleading
walking epiphanies
the bored, tired, sleepy version
meeting eye to eye
smile for smile
never faking, but never loosening the knots either
tie the loose ends just right

the remaining, the original
is a psychological art house
chaotic, musing, no doubt in the dark clouds
writing warfare of the minds
speaking soft, almost gullible
closest, truest, no boundaries like the previous
she lives as she breathes
grief filled in the soul
with a happy-to-go personality
i believe she's the one
except she hides beneath all that is dust
drifting through the mess she's become
it's calming, silent, wrecking havoc amidst
stench of sugar, candied crushes and humor
psychic tutorials, rafting rows of water
she lives in nightmares,
daydreams — almost as if there were none

Suddenly my hat

flies up, how ridiculous --


I am standing here.