by Nthabiseng Ntshala
It is home
Well that’s what we should call it.
How can I call it home if it’s as empty as our memories?
We see nothing but empty souls reflecting
I stare at the mirror
I see a figure filled with nothing but air
Air meaningless to breath
That tells not my story but the story of others
I am screaming for deaf ears to hear me
I cry with the rain falling
I see a blurry image
Who am I to be described?
There is always a shadow of doubt
I got sick from it
I became numb
I was a lifeless body with dreams
I gave up on myself so quickly
I lived for others
i gave them me and i became their slave
How can I be revived?
I stare at the mirror hoping to get answers
All I hear is silence.
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