If I Become Someone Else
I want you to hear what I hear, feel what I feel—feel like someone else inhabiting a stranger's body. I want you to know the fear when muscles bunch that don't feel like your muscles, when you seem taller than you know you are, when vertigo sets in, when the Earth seems further away than it can possibly be. These things I see sometimes are not my own— their truth lies in another's eyes. Sometimes I feel like I'm in someone else's house— the carpet brushing my bare feet is mine but it doesn't feel like mine. The window I look through is dirty in a way that doesn't make sense to me. How do I make sure these moments stay far apart—a muse but not a life? Where once we dreamed now we see what's coming true and the memory it haunts me in a way I cannot say what any of this is
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