Day 28 of 30 Days of Poetry

Dead roses lie on a stone table, like a forgotten grave gift
Splintered shards sit.
You see only my ghost,
Afterimage of when I was whole
While my pieces fall silently.

My hands cradle my head,
Keep the lees of my consciousness
From spilling beyond resurrection.

You see only my painted mask,
This skin that is not my own,
This skin I can never cut deep enough
To release the demons inside.

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