This feeling is so foreign—

As if I am standing witness to 

The world operating so smoothly

Without me. 

With me. 

With me purely an observer.

 

This feeling is so foreign—

As if I can not shake 

This slight constant discomfort

That makes every breath just a little heavier

And every thought just a little more

Depressing?

 

Is this depression?

I am an outsider.

 

This feeling is so foreign—

As if no one knows the truth

And I am hiding behind a facade of someone I despise.

Of a lover of drunken nights

And the typical college experience.

I am full of lies. 

 

This feeling is so foreign—

My friends are people I do not know 

And who do not know me. 

And who am I?

I wrote a story and called it my life,

A careful selection of memories 

Told to curate an image 

I can never maintain. 

 

Is this depression?

This is sadness.

This is isolation.

This is anger.

This is not who I am.