I am she,

though she

is not me.

An empty abyss

swirls in my glass.

A hopeful calling—

Will I be someone, at last?

I crack my heart,

aching to be different—

different from she

who stares back at me.

She bears no shard

piercing her chest.

I break my skin—

this wooden shell.

Now, my arm bleeds

splinters and dust;

she only bleeds blood.

The more I destroy myself,

the more alive I feel.

I am important.

I am different.

She is she.

I am what's left.