While wearing your hollowed out corpse like a suit of armor, every so often someone calls me your name. It rings hollow, a deed that would otherwise be an olive branch or a cool oasis is like receiving an empty box on my birthday.
I mimic your movements, your speech patterns, even your tastes, It damages me in ways I can't comprehend. You may ask what it's like to live as a facsimile of you and I must say it's haunting, I've played a role so long that I barely know what of me there's left.
Sometimes I wonder if other people can see the rot, see the skin peel and curl up at the corners of my mouth and my eyes. But they can't, the illusion remains unbroken. And it leaves me here wondering if 𝙄 even exist.
Am I just as hollow as you? Am I just a corpse too? Am I just a layer upon another layer upon layers and layers of decomposing flesh?
Is there even a living thing left within us?