Literature
She Is Not Me
Sitting before bitter glass,
Chin down, curls drooped,
Numb but to the cries of void.
I sense someone,
But she is not me.
I have long gone.
Voices call—
Compelling, strong.
I put them off:
Stop this nonsense.
She is not me,
How can she be?
Fine, they say:
Have it your way.
The betraying urge to peek
However,
Suddenly came.
I stare, finally, into the mirror.
The lush, coiffed hair.
Glowing cheeks salmon brushed,
Lips a painted cast.
She is not me.
She is not.
My tea eyes breathed life
I knew, as I gazed,
Refuting the listless orbs.
This hollow doll?
No! Not me.
Certainly cannot be.