Who are you again?
With your face plastered in the spotlight,
eyes wide and unfocused,
lens glaring and clicks snarking—
do you even remember?

What are you?
The microphone is to your lips.
Your breathing, ragged and loud,
echoes through the speakers of the theater.
Do you even know?

Where are you?
The depths are cold and dreary.
Your tears fuel the void in your tank.
The sunlight desperately grasps your hands.
Are you even awake?

To the light,
into the mic,
and drowning,
you say:

“I’m an astronaut.
A puppet to the stars;
I am where I do not belong,
for I am choking in the ocean.”