Dawning Creations

I’m dreading the opening of automatic doors,
your face is bright but torn
There are certain terrors found
even in the masking of mundane

Hold me close and confidently,
embracing me in front of the line,
my heart beating quietly as a moths batting wings

I’m not really here.
I’m dissociating, again.

There are opening and closing doors.
I told myself I’d let it be
but in letting it be,
it almost killed me.

I was righteous in my perseverating
but sound reasoning was in hiding,
simply nowhere to be found.

I’m not here.
Make no mistake.
I’m on the outside watching from a safer plain.
I could smell the flowers,
though they aren’t in bloom, yet.

Circling and circling,
recycling old thoughts,
trading them for no lesser than new tricks

I want my other side to handle these.

Come back and touch my feet to ground.

I’m not really here.

I’m not there, either.