My true thoughts are out of reach, and the person beneath my skin is as out of harmony with the personal as with the external.
History repeats a measure.
Identity reveals a foreign motion.
With a finger for each key, an elliptical melody echoes its past mistakes, selfish and consumed.
Conducting fear with repeating phrases, I'm defined by its movement and I anticipate its end without thought.
I built this house from the ground up and every brick seems misplaced, every picture seems mistaken.
Every lonely reminder that I have company only in being a stranger to my own existence echoes backward on the wings of the most familiar trait I have: my obsession.
And my most familiar traitor has wasted too many tears on a life with no meaning.