Gone

A mannequin is in my place

Just sitting at the breakfast table

There’s no expression on its face

I don’t believe that it is able

Why does no one check its pulse?

Does nobody see it there?

Or are they just too repulsed

I wonder if they even care

Its face is pretty, more than mine

Although the paint is cracked and thin

Its lips are full; its nose is fine

It has a pointed chin

But why do they all seem to act

As if it’s normal, everyday?

Don’t they see the simple fact

That I have gone away?