Dissonant

For the writer that doesn't feel human.

Pulling words like teeth

in some feeble attempt

of getting my thoughts straight.

Perhaps,

if I write this down,

I might slow my mind down.

Perhaps

a clean page in my journal

or a new note on my phone

might make me feel human again.

Losing touch with myself

and all I can write

is this disjointed sentence:

disconnection, dissonance.

My old self and the self I’m coming into

don’t get along.

Rubbing up against each other—

friction, tension.

Diamonds are made from pressure,

but I’m not ready to shimmer.

Keep me buried in the rough,

I’m not ready to be manipulated

and molded

to be wrapped around your finger.

But I fear

what I’ve been trying to avoid

has already happened—

my worst nightmare

has already befallen me.

I fear I’ve sold myself.

Short or under,

I’m not sure.

Giving my all to others,

and nothing to myself.

My cup is empty.

What once overflowed,

now dry.

I used to twist

and contort myself

to satisfy the world.

Now I bend over backwards

and break under the pressure.

They’ve bled me dry,

what happens when they see I’ve nothing left to give?

No more teeth to pull

nor blood to suck.

Nothing but these racing thoughts

and fractured phrases.

Disconnected. 

Disillusioned.

Dissonant.