Sometimes, I believe I might be dreaming.

But I can’t really think.

I feel an image in my mind;

but I can’t really see.

There’s white noise in living;

but I can’t really hear.

I understand their words;

but I can’t really feel.

All that’s left is my body.

Flesh stretched over muscle and bone,

my language clotting in my throat.

So I can express

the pit in my stomach

and grow the words.