Staring at the bottom of your glass

Your face changes shape, like
water rippling under a violent, but well-meaning wave.
Your eyes crease, not in a smile,
but trying to look through the skeleton that is me,
the retina of your eyes trying to decrypt mine,
scanning back and forth like one of your machines –
me trying to cover myself with what is left of me –
bones.

Today I trace my fingers along my own limbs
willing myself to belive that this skin is my own to protect – scars, stories and all.
Days when I hum and put my palm against my throat just to convince myself there’s a pulse running under this flesh cocoon.

Staring comes easily – staring into space.
It’s natural, getting lost – so familiar it is almost home.

Title: Passenger. Let her go.


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