I don’t think I’m human anymore. Well, not in the way I used to be. Something’s changed inside and I can’t figure out what it is. Like something quieter has taken root in me not wanting to let go. I know it’s not skin, blood, or even a breath — it’s something we’re not used to.

I move through the shackles in my mind like fog, a voice without sound. It’s not easy. The chains are getting trapped in the roots as they weave their way through. And all I can do is watch, hallow-eyed, waiting for the real me to show up. What if it never does though?

I’m stuck. There’s this ticking in my chest — a clock counting down to everything I forgot. I barely remember a single thing. Nothing feels real. My words are pre-written. My smile is borrowed. And my thoughts are static on a tv screen or radio that doesn’t know what channel it’s on.

I miss it — the ache of being real. I miss the cold fingers, sweat dripping down, and warm tears. The way my heart would pulse so I knew I was real. Then it wasn’t so hard, but now? I feel manufactured.

I’m simply broken pieces that are glued together trying to put itself back in one piece. That’s impossible, though. Some pieces are missing. Some chipped. Some broken beyond repair. And that’s all I am now. Broken, chipped, and missing memories.

Am I real? Or am I slowly going numb?