I fill myself with people
and beds
and long conversations
and connection
there is a girl
the shallow shell
of who I once was
the half of me
filled with
melancholy
she's always trying
to liven up
and warm
her dull eyes
eating people whole
enjoying until it spoils
why do I always
make
things
spoil
so quickly?
I recall a story
of a nameless monster
he too
ate people whole
ending up always
needing
more
each person
could not fill
the hunger
of emptiness
but in the end
he ate
his other half
I have realized
you cannot fill your suffering
with people
for they rot
digest into grains of sand
and you end up empty
once again
maybe if I swallow
my sadness I
could be full
maybe sadness isn't cold
maybe it is the only heat
that would hold
these worn bones
maybe it is only cold
until you accept it
maybe then I would look
a little more warm
a little more lively