The Hollowing

A splitting difference—

something’s wrong.

The day feels short,

the night too long.

I see them playing

just outside,

while something in me

fractures, dies.

Their laughter drills

into my skull,

too bright, too loud,

too beautiful.

I try to speak—

my tongue won’t move.

This silence is

a quiet wound.

Their faces blur

behind the glass,

like ghosts that mock

as moments pass.

I press my hand—

it meets the cold.

This prison holds

a body old.

A name is whispered—

not my own.

I smile, but I

feel overthrown.

Strangers come

and stroke my hair.

They speak in tones

I cannot bear.

The mirror cracks—

who is she now?

A wrinkled mask,

a furrowed brow.

My thoughts slip loose

like beads unstrung.

The lullaby

has come undone.

What once was mine

is now a maze.

Familiar hallways

bend and blaze.

The doors won’t open.

Time won’t bend.

This waking dream

will never end.

I once held dolls—

their eyes were kind.

Now empty sockets

mock my mind.

The children laugh,

they do not see

the rot inside

what’s left of me.

Their world is whole—

untouched, alive.

While I forget

how to survive.

They chase the sun;

I drown in dusk,

my memories

a cloud of dust.

No longer real,

no longer known,

I rot in place

and die alone.

Each breath I take

is borrowed air—

I’m almost gone,

but still aware.