snap

Hello, Self  

socially distanced,  
long before it was a sticker  
on the supermarket floor.  
 
Your eyes do not find me,  
yet they burn holes into  
a non-existent atmosphere,  
 
devoid of  
sensation,  
breath,  
and emotion.  

In a snap, we disconnect.
 
Fingers are white-knuckled and numb,  
clinging to a sense of self  
you've fashioned du jour,  
 
clenching and wrenching,  
 
as if suffocating this counterfeit You in your palms  
will absorb,  
and become a You you'll keep,  
at least for a time,  
before the tide inevitably changes.  
 
I look at you, Self  
 
from the outside,  
and can only imagine  
what storms you've conjured  
in your head today,  
 
and what disasters were born  
of your desire to protect  
a You so outwardly hard,  
yet so inwardly fragile.  
 
Except it's not imagined.  
 
You are I.  
 
We are connected  
in this dissociative reality.  
 
And the reality is,  
 
the tether is taut,  
but fears the snap.