The world moves like a river
that has decided I am debris—
not to be carried, not to be cradled,
but tossed against stones
until my edges fray.
Every street hums with a language
I never learned.
Every light cuts like a blade
across my eyes.
Every sound, a torrent,
turning my mind into a stormy sea.
I reach for something solid—
a hand, a pause, a quiet
—but it is never steady.
The world surges forward anyway,
its currents laughing,
its tides reshaping me
into shapes that will not float.
I try to swim with it,
but each attempt is met
with waves that push, pull,
drag me under.
Even the air feels thick,
a weight that fills my lungs
with questions I cannot answer.
I am a body adrift,
and everything is against me.
Doors, words, rules, smiles—
all designed without me in mind,
all moving in a current
that calls me enemy
simply for existing.
Sometimes I wonder
if I am drowning
or if the world is
its own storm,
pleased to see me struggle
beneath its roar.
And yet, in that relentless tide,
I learn to hold myself
like a secret anchor,
breathing against the foe
that has named me its prey.
