I look into eyes, but I can't tell if they're mine. 
The words coming off my tongue feel like delicately 
polished, 
practiced lines. 
In my head I know my face, 
but I haven't shown it for so long now, 
that I might now know how. 
Every day I'm someone else, someone different, 
but I swear that you could never tell that I'm hollow. 
I'm hollow. I fill the emptiness with things that aren't 
real, 
to see if I can feel less hollow, 
but I know it's only temporary. It's temporary.
In my head I know my face, 
but I haven't shown it for so long now, 
that I might now know how. 
Every day I'm someone else, someone different, 
but I swear that you could never tell that I'm hollow.