I can move things, but I’ve no reason to try to be part of things. I’m not what belongs there anymore.

I’ve grown off in a strange direction, somehow.

I’m in a poorly tailored meatsuit, one that is falling apart from neglect.

I’ve no desire to expose myself to my past. The regrets would likely carve a chunk from my chest.

Disjointed and malformed thoughts. Hindsight forsaken for fear of clarity and painful truth.

Friendships have felt strangely empty. I’m out of phase, so the handshake is fragmentary.