A Poor Man’s
She tries on my skin like it’s secondhand silk,
but it hangs loose—
creases at the corners,
stains where light should fall.
Mirrors lie for me,
bend kindly,
but they break for her—
seven years,
and counting.
She hums my old refrains,
the ones I’ve long since outgrown,
but her voice hits flat,
every note a hollow echo
of a song she never understood.
I have danced in storms and dried off in the sun—
she slips in puddles and blames the sky.
There’s imitation,
then there’s parody,
then there’s whatever this is.
A costume without the courage,
a map without the journey,
a name dropped in rooms she’ll never be invited to.
Not even a shadow,
just the smudge left behind
when the light moves on.
