poem: you can publish, but you must use a pseudonym

they call me no-name, little ghost and

spirited what-if that runs

and dances among the has-beens and will-be’s.

i have deep holes where

my eyes should be, i have a pulsing sticky

heart where my mouth

should be: I cannot talk,

but I can bleed.

 

I can not even claim what is mine

as mine; it is not mine,

it was just a game, or gaslighting,

an after-effect of the after-effects of

abuse.

 

She is no-one pretending to be no-body,

pretending to be dead. I am not dead

 

i am just here.

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