Turnover
hollow
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I look into eyes, but I canât tell if theyâre mine.
The words coming off my tongue feel like delicately polished,
practiced lines.
In my head I know my face,
but I havenât shown it for so long now,
that I might now know how.
Every day Iâm someone else, someone different,
but I swear that you could never tell that Iâm hollow.
Iâm hollow. I fill the emptiness with things that arenât real,
to see if I can feel less hollow,
but I know itâs only temporary. Itâs temporary.
In my head I know my face,
but I havenât shown it for so long now,
that I might now know how.
Every day Iâm someone else, someone different,
but I swear that you could never tell that Iâm hollow.