I’m empty.

Every evening after work,
I sit and stare at the walls,
Wondering what to paint,
Wondering where my words went,
Asking the void how I got lost.
And I see,
That I’m empty.

I’m empty,
But they say,

You’re half full. 

They say,

Don’t look at the other half.

They say,

You won’t break,
You’re strong.

But I know;
I’m empty.

I’m full of cowardice,
Full of anger undirected,
Of nonexistent faith,
Of pity at my skin, my teeth, my bones,
My very very core,
My fragile, cracked core.

They say,

Let us help you,
Let us see you,
Open up,
Open up.

But I’m empty.
What do I show you?

I’m only some bit of air,
Some bit of agony,
Some liters of blood and flesh,
And then,
I’m just empty.
Just, empty.


Blood, Sweat, and Tears.

I build walls;
That’s my job.
Sometimes I build
Walls of crystal.
Sometimes I build them
With smoke
And burning fire.
But most of the time,
I just build walls
Around other people
So they stop
Looking for
Some other person
With cement and paint.

Some Days.

Some days, I am extraordinary.
Mostly, I’m just an average;
An average of all things I’ll never be.

Some days, I am the queen of it all.
Mostly, I’m a slave;
A slave to the image of the queen.

Some days, I am hungry.
Mostly, I’m the appetite;
The want to gorge on hatred and grief.

Some days, I look gorgeous.
Mostly, I’m a newborn;
Ugly and bloody and screaming my lungs off.

Some days, I am not myself.
Mostly, I search for my soul;
The one with no reason to exist.

Some days, are not like the others.

Some days, are just some days.

The Last Consequence.

There were candles burning with a soft sweet smell, inside the eerie room. Voices muttered inside her head. She floated in, wearing an elegant pearly dress that illuminated her face in a sinking but deep calm. A shadow moved somewhere outside as she closed the large window. The man sat at the table, his face half lit by the dim light. Her scent played around in the air with something else that he couldn’t comprehend. The brick walls reflected the glow in a darker shade, shifting the room into further uneasiness. She sat down next to him, and stretched her hand towards his head, in a gesture to comfort the fears he hid. His eyes seemed dead and stone-like. She inhaled sharply, feeling the cold resting on his shiny sweaty skin. Death lingered. The cut had been deep and concealed, the doctor said the next morning. Her death that followed, left scars that remained no secret.