23 of me are crawling out of the cracks in my skin.
They are climbing down my eyelashes,
bouncing of my cheeks,
hiding in the closet and cupboards
ready to pay me a late night visit.
They never let me sleep.
It is my own personal horror film.
Bodies on all four hanging from the wall,
their neck twisted, eyes gazing into my soul
”Aren’t you embarrassed of what you’ve become”
whispered a child’s voice in the dead of night,
”You spit in the face of all of us”
What a failure
What a tragedy
23 wraiths have the same face as me
What a waste of space
What calamity
Did we fight for this empty thing?
I just want to sleep
but instead I am smoking on my balcony
it’s a bit crowded with the 23 of me
they are waiting for an answer, an apology
I don’t even know how to explain
that I lost myself and them.
*Note from Luna: I wrote this when I was 23, hence the use of that number
My book is available on Amazon: Rehab
Check out my latest video:
Nice poem. Simple and yet amazing
Maturity in thought makes you in the purist form a writer.