She

She is a soul cold
she’s so into herself
that I’ve become a
book on her shelf.

How she’ll deduce
any insight in light
that she can’t stand
makes pitiful sights.

Rip my flesh I’m in
her story and her lies.
I hover in air free for
her eyes to despise.

Ripe I was time fits
on my wrist I see it
tick and tock but my
existence turned shit.

Robbed of love left
to my devices I weep.
From the thing I in my
now hollow self keep.

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