Buzz

There’s this constant unease.
A hum under everything.
Like static between channels.
Like I am trespassing in my own life.
Always slightly wrong, slightly late,
standing where I shouldn’t be.
The air feels watchful.
Every step rehearsed.
An invisible line to balance on,
somewhere in the dark.
The storm hasn’t started yet,
but I can hear it folding itself together.
Be ready.
Act like you belong.
Pretend you have the list.
Pretend you know the order of things.
Did they hand one out?
I never get mine.
They must not find out.
No one should ever find out.