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  
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.
Written by MgAl
Author's Note
I wrote this mostly on a whim, so it's kind of all over the place, and only very lightly edited from its original state. The tags include "depression," which is partially correct, but this mostly involves my feelings of dissociation I experience. It is both disheartening that I feel the need to disconnect, but also is one of the times I feel the most comfort. Disconnected, dissociative. A thousand yard stare where I am a thousand yards away from myself, and my problems.
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