I am not what I am;
I am the empty chair at the table,
the skipped heartbeat, the unlit candle.
I am the ghost in the grocery aisle,
tracing the prices of my worth.
I am the hunger and the hollow,
the prayer and the punishment.
And still, beneath the snowdrift of my skin,
something trembles—
not yet dead, not yet gone
#shortpoetry #draft
>>Click here to continue<<