It is the soul that is asleep,
and the body simply follows.

I find my soul only in the realm of darkness,
so I close my eyes
to put my soul at ease,
in its home
of oblivion.

This skin is not mine own.
For it will remain ,
When I am gone.
This skin is my home
For my time here.
Did I choose this skin,
Or did this skin choose me ?
I am plagued by own existence.
But is it even my own?

My existence  is forlorn.
From my body, I am torn.
Withered and stripped,
My soul is worn.
Inside brews an endless storm.
Oh how I long to be no more.

It was not me
who you loved.

It was not me who you saw,
but rather the mirror you put before me.

It was not my voice you heard,
but rather your own echo.

The mirror you held between us was fragile.
Slowly it began to crack.
Each time I held you closer,
the mirror began to disintegrate.

The more the mirror began to break,
The more you saw me.
But you cannot stand to not stare
at your own reflection.

As the mirror shattered,
so did my heart.
You picked up the chards and threw them to my skin.
For you do not see the blood coursing through my veins,
but rather the lack of yourself.

For it was not me who you loved,
but rather your
mirror.

The day the light
was lost from your eyes
was not the day you died,
but rather
the day our love died.

I don’t know which hurts most.