I am fractured,
not real,
a girl in two pieces
instead of one,
thinking like
another has my brain.
This is not me.
I am something else
altogether different
and separate,
sharp shards
with round edges,
and these poems
are yours,
not mine,
not complete
because how
can they exist
amongst and away
from these footsteps
the physical me
takes through life?
How can I write
for the world to read
when this writer
only exists on screen?
She is not
the real me.
Or maybe,
she’s so much
the real
that I can’t let her
escape into reality.
Not one person
I know in person
knows these words exist.
I cannot claim them.
They are hers
and yours
and neither of you
are real.


2 thoughts on “Two

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