Dave Bonta's "Disproportionate" feels like the mind of someone worn thin at the end of a long, unsettled day. The opening lines suggest a period of upheaval, where talk becomes "full of glass": fragile, sharp, easy to cut yourself on. Conversations seem to need careful handling.
The second stanza turns inward. A committee, presumably a meeting or group discussion, keeps replaying in the speaker's head all evening and won't let go. The speaker then asks how to "clear myself / of late nights," as if tiredness were a residue that needs washing off.
The ending widens out to the sky. The stars look high and far away, yet they "sting our hands," which is a surprising image. Something remote still hurts up close. That gap between how things appear and how they feel is probably what the title points to. The mood is anxious, tired, and quietly uneasy, though the last image has a strange beauty.