Lord of the raw edge,
bless the scrape of the empty bowl.
Bless the throat that stays dry,
and the fingers that clutch at the air.
My chest is a crater.
It is an ugly, gaping mouth,
always begging for more than it holds.
I am sick with the gravity of pulling things toward me.
They tell me to be still.
They tell me to be full of what is already here.
But contentment feels like concrete,
and satisfaction feels like death.
Do not cure me of this fever.
Do not fill the ditch I have dug in myself.
Let the wind howl through my ribs,
because a vessel that does not ache is just a coffin.
Keep me hollow.
Keep me hunting.
Let the fire burn until there is nothing left but the reach.