Imitation

This feeling is akin to words I once wrote,

In a poem I can’t read again,

one that I scribbled and sent away,

A message in a bottle, set to sail at sea

Hoping it finds you in good health 

Or in times of need 

The kind of poem that is more me than I am,

Almost terrifying in its honesty,

Written in intoxication, detached from reality,

A vulnerability I don’t recognise

Or refuse to acknowledge 

Embarrassing in it’s authenticity 

This can’t possibly be me,

I truly am in awe of my own stubbornness,

Because I’ll never admit I wrote a poem

That I couldn’t even face again,

And if life imitates art

It stands to be,

That I’ll lie to myself about this

And how I truly feel.

        

                       —Aananya Murali