I wrote this last summer:
The hollow consumes me from the inside,
Thump, thump, thump goes the drumbeat of my hands clapping,
Whatever was in that space in my soul has long since turned to dust,
An echo of a story that never began.
Empty is such a tame word,
It describes me without the passion and understanding,
Space is a vacuum but is far from empty,
The word is too soft to describe the chaos of my nothing.
I rebuilt the walls I’d so ungraciously tore down,
When I trusted that my being would be loved and respected,
Now they are higher and thicker, without limit,
And as they went up, out went everything that could sabotage that.
No desire, no passion, no hatred, no love,
Only foggy memories that take over without warning,
Only the guilt and doubt and the hundred questions,
The smallest flicker of rage, barely visible as it hides in the back.
I navigate the chaos of my memories, plucking them from the ether,
Every part of me trying to escape the torture by my mind,
Count 1, 2, 3, forget the misery you see,
A bird, a plane, anything to keep my eyes forward.
This bit, that bit, so many bits, except for one,
No face, no smile, no beautiful eyes ,
A blank space where the person should be,
A blank space where the dream should live.