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There isn't any me anymore.
Maybe there never was.
I have lived a kind of half life
with a half me,
and a series of masks
to obscure my world of pain
from the view of others.
I watch people living, loving,
being.
I watch from behind a wall
of impenetrable glass.
No one can see me,
they talk to my mask.
The mask nods and smiles
and looks real, involved,
alive.
I am just an illusion;
a painted face,
a moving, breathing body,
a mouth forming words,
an image of me that is paper-thin.
Behind the mask
is nothing and no one.
I am not yet in existence.
I am only a fragile vessel
spilling over with pain.
At the bottom of the vessel
is an embryonic me,
twisted in ugly agony,
shrinking from contact,
curling into herself.
I am an unrecognizable mess
of twisted matter and gnarled thought,
heart barely beating,
not yet alive.
I am attached only by a shriveling umbilical cord,
with a tenuous connection
to my flimsy womb.
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Take care,
Theresa