The birds still sing,
but no more do I.
For I fear my voice has been stolen,
ripped from my throat,
by hands so familiar,
hands I was so sure I knew...
I recognize the chipped, red nail polish,
the scars and the scabs,
and the doodles in Sharpie.
These are the hands I grew up with.
But now,
I see these hands
covered in my blood,
and they look so, very different.

My voice in their hands,
their expression one of faux pity.
Their face is a mirror image of my own,
but still I haven't an idea who I'm...