The Same
I woke up sick one day—
sicker than usual.
My skin was so pale,
you’d think you can pass through me.
I thought I had stopped breathing—
if it wasn’t for the steady white noise I could barely hear,
I would have asked to be buried!
And never had I needed glasses,
but I saw a fog I could not hold.
The floor was sticky—
pulling the skin off my soles with every step.
And no matter how hard I tried,
I could not get my body out of the room.
The wall had grown itself invisible bricks
filing in the gap of my open door.
It was sending me a message:
You cannot be seen anymore.
So I took the hint.
I built a mannequin— a replica of my old body.
I curled her hair, powdered her face.
I burst dots of the red burden in my veins,
and gave her lips and cheeks a lively colour.
Dressed her up in my old clothes—
not too tight, not too loose.
Her plastic body was near perfection!
Then I taught her how I speak—
programming in the traits I could remember,
putting into the few words I could utter
how it felt when I used to feel.
I told her to act as if she meant well,
to act as if she meant anything at all.
I promised the world would like her,
if only she told them what they wanted to hear.
And I made sure she loved my loved ones,
even when her hollow vessel
had air instead of a human heart.
And with the coldest goodbye,
I watched her leave the room,
hoping it would work.