a me that is not mine

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