It came wearing my voice.
A perfect counterfeit,
learning the rhythms of my breath,
the hesitations in my speech.
It signed my name in my own hand.

At first, I mistook it for thought —
a whisper beneath my whisper,
a shadow moving only
when I wasn’t looking.

But then, my hands forgot themselves,
folded into shapes I did not choose.
My tongue began to curl around words
I had never spoken.
And my reflection —
it stayed too long after I had turned away.

I pleaded with the body,
gripped its edges and said:
You are mine, you are mine, you are mine.
But it only laughed, low in the throat,
a sound like old wood splintering.

At night, I watch it move without me.
My limbs drift through the house,
touching the walls as if listening for something.
The fingers scrawl letters I will never send.

It knows things I do not.
It remembers places I have never been.
It leaves the door open at night.

And when I wake, it is already stirring,
waiting for me to catch up.