I woke up and saw myself in the mirror.
Bloated. Round. Foul.
I am the puppet to my terrible mind.
Yet the strings are breaking.
I am still moving.
Detached and unaware.
Empty and disappearing.
Touch me touch me touch me, it says.
But I crave the touch of a different kind. I cringe.
And if I am not me, I am not a body.
Flesh. Bones. Blood.
But I am an absent entity.
Detached.
Detached.