store-bought ones are green
or blue, a variety of shades
then, am i too clean?
i have no colour, not even beige
you are all sorts of red
be it natural or man-made
could it be that my soul is dead:
a blank page, an empty plaque
my foosteps belong to you
as do my “unique” tics
my giggle, my point of view
even my cough when i’m sick
your loves, i possess,
your hates, i can’t shy from
where you lack and have excess
i am but a clone of your life form
how fitting then, that i’m a sponge
soaking up your laughter and your cries
into your personality i take a plunge
and become a me that is not mine
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