It’s a funny thing, to feel hollow.
I tap my fingers on my chest
And hear a dull echo
As sound races through empty space.
There’s something missing,
I tell myself.
There should be something here.
My heart is there, I can hear it beating.
No, the hollow place is on my chest.
Like I’ve been turned inside out
And something that should be outside
Is inside
Trapped behind a cage of bone.
I tap at it with fingertips,
Trying to excavate what I know should be there
And let it breathe the sun and sky
But all I get is an echo.
My skin feels thinner
And thinner
And thinner.
Until I could break it with one more tap
And there would just be void inside.
It’s a funny thing, to feel hollow.
The void gets bigger some days
Until it threatens to swallow me whole.
I’ve tried stuffing it full.
Socks.
Shirts.
It helps
But the void is always there.
Some days I can’t tell where the void ends
And I start.
It’s not so funny, feeling hollow.
Not when trying to fill the hole
Becomes all you can really do
And it
Never
Works.
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