I am hollow.

The words form tragedies. And that’s so ridiculous and clichéd to say, but true. Words seriously form my tragedies. They keep me existing—breathing paper and intelligence, but they wreck me. Perhaps it’s my personality? With nothing worthy—could I possibly keep something worthy?

I am hollow.

I keep a heart, but I never feed it. And my faults outweigh my good; do I truly deserve something good? And I hear the blood that runs through my veins, like a liquid disease of existing just because I can. I have nothing planned. I have nothing beautiful to offer and smiles are not a true occupation.

I hate more than I forgive and am missed more than I miss. I am terrible. I am the affliction. I want to tear you to shreds with my sparse vocabulary—I want to cry. Frustration leaks from beneath this pathetic apathy I call a body. I want you.

Not deserving, I know—
I want, but will never give—
They grieve, yet I continue to live—someone less
Worthy.

This is a testimony to my vain disgrace, writing to save my face. Writing about how horrible I am to make others go “Ahhh…at least she admits it!”

Admitting means shit, when nothing is done to remedy it. Can you understand? Can I draw you in and keep you here? Just stay a while—they never stay long. Just stay—tell me something. Repeat some interesting irony so I can say, “that’s ironic”—because it’s my favorite word.

Tell me what fame is. How it tastes, how it keeps you fake and plastic, but is seems so wonderful. Is it wrong to want to write my way to glory? I never was very right to ever begin with. I’m stubborn enough to make you think so.

Have you left? Have you left with your peace destroyed? Your mind restored to boredom? You want the ordinary; I wan with interest. I honestly just want him, even if he is ordinary.

I feel anxiety, like I’m waiting for a call that will change everything. I have the feeling of wanting to cry, or drive forever, with my mind never resting. And am I waiting for a call to change everything? Am I waiting for a voice to say everything will be alright? Even if I won’t believe… Believing keeps you young.

And when I’m old and done believing, will the broken dreams be all but pieces of something better? And will never believing be easier than trying? I hate advice. Do you want to leave? I won’t drive you home, but if nothing here is worth it… don’t stay and pretend to grow attached—that’s the best advice I can give you for relationships.

Then will I sink to the bottom with the pennies and nickels and dimes tossed for a dream—am I just a fragment of a wish that never was? It’s the waiting that kills me, the anticipation of something on the verge of something—self-discovery, maybe? He understands human poetry, but nothing in the form of literature.

Frustrating.

It’s so frustrating to think that I may be the last to ever really know what I truly mean. Am I aching for better company? Or the loss of such a comfort? Did I ever have that comfort? Speech can keep me so informed as to want to never know. I listen, despite what you think. And I still need, no matter how many cups I drink.

So when will those chains come to hold me close? When will I feel like I truly fit—not even here, not even you make me feel like I am whole. I just see an image of a mouth widened in an endless scream—“Hear me, understand me!”—

Do you understand?

Or, do you understand how to lie about understanding?

Either way it would feel the same. Useless—achingly useless.

Maybe…

Maybe, if I was less a complication? Less an aggravation to those and to others and to me, maybe maybe maybe then hollow wouldn’t ring so hollow. The storybooks, the plays, the costumes, the sunny rays, tucked tucked tucked away—and then would I be less of a complicated monstrosity?

They whispered pride into my ear when I was born, the first thing they gave my mind to tighten it’s tiny fists around—the center of my existence, and my Atlas to my world. The sucking vanity of my core, the endless doubt of truth… my pride, my pride—the damn pride that sinks my solid resolutions. I’m a wretch against resisting instinct.

Crawling with humanity… on my hands and knees.

The dirt never was so deep.