today isn’t real.

it’s the dream from which I escape

into other dreams.

I grasp at possibilities,

construct another today in another place,

another person with my face,

I am never quite here in the moment.

tomorrow isn’t real.

it’s the scream from which I escape

into other screams.

I clutch at self-tortures,

construct another reason to be not okay,

another way to finish the day,

I am never quite sure of the nature of time.

I’m not real.

I’m the gleam in the eye of a stranger from which I escape

into other gleams.

I grapple with weaknesses,

construct another life in which I could live

another self, one I could forgive,

I am never quite able to know who I am.