Nothing Here Belongs To Me

I wake, I breathe, I move, I fade, A specter stitched from a torn-out page. A thing that walks but leaves no trace, A mouth that speaks, but not a face. I press my hands to solid skin, Feel the warmth, the pulse within. It beats, it drums, it hums, it sways— But it is borrowed. Not mine—not mine. I wear a voice that isn’t true, It speaks in tones I never knew. They nod, they smile, they call my name, But I am absent, all the same. They say I’m here, they say I breathe, But nothing here belongs to me. Not the air, not the ground, not the bones I hold— Just skin too loose and blood too cold. I watch them dance, I watch them sing, I try to move, but I am string. A puppet stitched with hollow thread, A mannequin that mimics red. The world is warm, the world is bright, But never quite within my sight. I press my palm to window glass, And let the world just watch me pass. I smile, I nod, I play my part, I bow, I clap, I feign a heart. They look, they see, but never quite— I flicker dim, I steal the light. And when I leave—oh, when I go— No rivers bend, no cold winds blow. The clocks don’t pause, the birds don’t hush, The world forgets me in a rush. No footprints pressed in salted dirt, No echoes where my ribs once hurt. No hollow name upon the tongue, Just silence—soft, just silence—young. A ripple smoothed before it swells, A whisper swallowed whole by bells. A shadow stretched, then pulled too thin, A door that locked me out, within. And so I breathe, and so I fade, A ghost before the grave is made. A thing that walks but leaves no trace, A mouth that speaks— But not a face.