If I Become Someone Else

I want you to hear what I hear,
feel what I feel—feel 
like someone else inhabiting a stranger's body.

I want you to know the fear
when muscles bunch that don't feel like your muscles,
when you seem taller than you know you are,
when vertigo sets in,
when the Earth seems further away
than it can possibly be.

These things I see sometimes are not my own—
their truth lies in another's eyes.

Sometimes I feel like I'm in someone else's house—
the carpet brushing my bare feet is mine
but it doesn't feel like mine.
The window I look through is dirty
in a way that doesn't make sense to me.

How do I make sure
these moments stay far apart—a muse
but not a life?

Where once we dreamed now we see
what's coming true and the memory
it haunts me in a way I cannot say 
what any of this is

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