the-world-tilts-and-so-do-i-the-dame-in-black

Some days the floor forgets to stay still,
and I follow its lead
a slow, uncertain sway,
as if gravity is tired of holding me
in one direction.

My body lists like a ship
that’s taken on too much water.
Balance becomes a negotiation,
a quiet argument between my feet
and the spinning room.

Thoughts used to arrive whole.
Once, my mind was a clean, bright hallway
where memories lined up neatly,
patient, ready to be chosen.
Now they come in fragments,
half‐formed, half‐fleeing,
like they’re afraid of being spoken.
I reach for a sentence
and it dissolves on my tongue,
a ghost of meaning
I can’t quite resurrect.

People wait for me to finish,
but the words scatter,
and I’m left holding silence
like a broken tool.

And the anger
it flares too fast,
too bright,
a match dropped in dry grass.
I hate how easily I ignite,
how quickly the world becomes
too loud, too sharp, too much.
I apologize more than I breathe.

There’s a grief in this,
a quiet mourning
for the person I was
before my brain became
a cracked bell
ringing off‐key.
I miss the steadiness,
the memory that held me upright,
the thoughts that stayed long enough
to become something real.

I move through the day
like wading through thick water,
slow, deliberate,
hoping no one notices
how hard I’m trying
to stay upright,
to stay gentle,
to stay coherent.

But some days,
the world tilts,
and so do I
and all I can do
is ride the sway
and pretend it’s a dance
I meant to learn.