She is merely
an empty drum
against which
your head bangs.

She has been empty for awhile
now, but you still plow
away.

It's easier this way,
to remain. Better than sorrow,
and the magic of pain.

She has been echoing all this time,
the sound of your skull
is a thunderclap in the air.

With each concussion
lightning spits
through your eyes.

But she is merely a drum,
been empty for awhile.

The blood runs down
your dented forhead,
and tears stream down
your face,
but you will remain,
it's easier this way.

Easier to do
what you've always done.