Fragments of Me by Carol Anne Johnson

Image | cottonbro studio

Fragments of Me

I wake to voices not my own, yet they live within my skin.
The mirror holds a stranger’s gaze, a name I’ve never known.
Memories shift like autumn leaves, unsure of where they’ve been.
I carry lives inside this shell, but often feel alone.

The mirror holds a stranger’s gaze, a name I’ve never known.
They speak through me in tones that twist my words into their own.
I lose the thread of time and place—then find I’m not alone.
They shield, they scream, they dream aloud with minds I’ve never known.

Memories shift like autumn leaves, unsure of where they’ve been.
Some are soft as lullabies, others edged in sin.
I touch the echo of a wound I don’t recall within—
A thousand selves have walked my path, both fire and porcelain.

I carry lives inside this shell, but often feel alone.
We share a breath, a body—yet we wander worlds unknown.
Some days they fight, some days they sing, some days I am disowned.
Still through the chaos, one truth stands: together, we have grown.

I wake to voices not my own, yet they live within my skin.
The mirror holds a stranger’s gaze, a name I’ve never known.
Memories shift like autumn leaves, unsure of where they’ve been.
I carry lives inside this shell, but often feel alone.

 © Carol Anne Johnson

Image © Barbara Leonhard

Carol Anne Johnson is in her mid-40s. She is blind and was diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder and complex PTSD. She is also a survivor of child abuse. She enjoys writing poetry and reading, walking, and volunteering. You can follow her on her blog, http://therapybits.com/.

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