Old poetry 3

I feel like a clone of myself,walking around, head underground. I step on nails while I walk aimlessly, following a goal that isn't mine. Following directions from a ghost in my mind. Still, I hold on to the husk of you, clawing so deep my fingers bleed. Who is the "me" in the mirror? They look back with macabre eyes, an unfitting smile, despite what I feel inside. A world that's mostly callused and bruised—the waves of life roll past scraped legs. But the you that is dyed in a red hue will eventually melt into the dark blue, sinking into the abyss knowingly, reluctantly holding my breath while desperately holding your hand, begging death to swallow us whole, so we can finally be one alone.

11/04/23