Molt

i'm rather vested in me.
it's a personality i've spent a whole life evolving.
so why then, do i want to disappear.

i have a voice.
i have an interest in being heard.
just not that way of sound.

i've witnessed others who have disappeared.
sometimes i sense they have returned
with different clothing.
it's a signal of change.

perhaps that's it, i'm molting.
the skin of familiar, tossed aside,
fresh scales, reflecting the bright sun.

i'm ready for step 3, before 1 and 2.
while the unreachable step 6 whispers
something akin to, it doesn't matter.

what lags are the words,
upon the stepless.

i close my eyes,
a grasping consolidation of white noise,
the ringing background ear
keeping an invisible metronome.

i'm labeled as urgent,
others see a weird driven.
it feels like i've missed so many deadlines.

to six's answer,
the gap is one i've never traveled,
sitting on the manufactured edge
that says, good enough, give it a rest.

it's a self-imposed demand,
carrying an urgency only loosely stated
as i continue to add words.

the body would welcome slumber,
yet the choice at the moment
is uncomfortable hunch.