"Hey doc, I came in feeling kind of strange..."

My thoughts skip  
like scratched discs—  
looping refrains  
I don’t remember writing.  
Someone moved the furniture  
inside my mind.

Eyes follow  
that aren’t there.  
Or are.  
They blink  
just after I do.

I’ve started measuring silence  
between footsteps  
I didn’t take.  
Mirrors hesitate now—  
they show me,  
but too slowly.  
Like they’re checking  
who I’ll be this time.

Every word I say  
feels recorded.  
Every truth I try to speak  
static-warped,  
time-delayed.

It’s not fear  
if it turns out real, right?

The walls are breathing  
or maybe I am.  
Hard to tell anymore.  
Even time flinches  
when I look at it wrong.

If this is normal,  
I need a new diagnosis.