Dissociation

In a pop-up book,

I am the pop-up.

The color is in the pages,

But I find myself being ripped from the fibers attached to my veins that are supposed to keep me grounded into the paper,

Grounded into my senses.

Am I doing this right momma,

Because I don’t feel good.

Momma I don’t feel.

In your grandma’s house,

I am the crooked photo you couldn’t stand when you came over to chat.

I think there was a mistake,

Because that photo never seemed to balance out and I can’t seem to align myself with the earth’s axis.

Balanced enough to hold on,

But not enough to feel my heart beat.

Am I doing this right momma, 

Because I feel like I’m gonna fall off.

Momma I’m gonna fall.

In presence,

I am the absence.

You knock on the door of my lifeless body to find that I am not home.

I think the atoms that make up my soul are not moving quick enough to keep up with what it means to be alive.

And you always told me that this isn’t a race, 

But I am far behind.

Am I doing this right momma,

Because I think I’m lost.

Momma I can’t find myself.

Reviews

[The Twin Arenas]

Whenever Southern writers use words like "momma" it inherently works. When I do it, it's obvious I'm from someplace else.

[Morgan Eliz]

I really like this. Your use of repetition was well executed, and your creative metaphors for mental illness and dissociation felt genuine and heart breaking. I do think you should have read over this a few more times to catch grammatical errors such as "dong". But, I mean, that's really not a big deal at all.

Good job. Thank you for sharing.