empty, I thought
how odd it is that
everyone else has
smiles, tears, and something
called cares, except I.
My little self sat there mimicking
the upturned and
downturned corners of the lips,
mimicked their sound of laughter
their arms in kindness and meanness,
mimicked their strides,
their speech, the silent and the stresses,
their ways and rituals.
Filling in the emptiness that stood stark.
So embroiled, I became
the many faces I observed.
Now, here, at the corner of the world, weary
I sit quietly
the peels of skin fall back like a blooming lotus
and I find myself empty, again
that is all I have ever been
. . .
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