Empathic

Poetry

Photo by Fuu J on Unsplash

The sounds make a distorted reverberated base
fighting against the wind in the trees.
I cannot hear my thoughts, let alone my voice.
Am I alive or am I dead?

I can feel the parts that are torn inside,
where a chunk was taken
and not returned.
Where I left part of my energy on the table
— let go of that part of myself.

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