Sometimes I wake up and I’m empty, ribcage hollow,
And I take a pill and I think I should be able to hear the capsule clattering down, a
xylophonic melody,
Feeling—viscerally—the uselessness of armored bone with nothing to protect.
Maybe it’s a cage instead, a prison for the void in my chest.
The reaching hungry absence following me as I crawl through daily mundanities, into
perpetuity,
A rolling, roiling cacophony like an hourglass eternally spinning.
It is tiring to be afraid of the dark when the dark is always sitting, heavily, within you.
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