your hands are
a morgue for
the memory
of who I used to
be & I hate it.

i hate the shadows
that follow me in
the night
with your stalky
frame & unforgiving
hands.

I, a year ago, was a
frame of who I used
to be, trying to forget
the people in my life
who missed my ghost
more than
I did.










I cried. screamed.
I promise I fought.
but in the end, I
was a room
without an echo.

so many people used to
tell me that I had a
voice loud enough to
change the world.
but now, I
can’t even write a simple
poem.