I look into eyes, but I can’t tell if they’re mine.

The words coming off my tongue feel like delicately polished,

practiced lines.

In my head I know my face,

but I haven’t shown it for so long now,

that I might now know how.

Every day I’m someone else, someone different,

but I swear that you could never tell that I’m hollow.

I’m hollow. I fill the emptiness with things that aren’t real,

to see if I can feel less hollow,

but I know it’s only temporary. It’s temporary.

In my head I know my face,

but I haven’t shown it for so long now,

that I might now know how.

Every day I’m someone else, someone different,

but I swear that you could never tell that I’m hollow.