the sun rises all the same
and eventually gives way to the moon
but i am emptier than a sandbox
filled with abandoned toys and memories

when there are no longer colourful crayons and words
for me to put my sadness into picture books
to be understood

even the poems tucked beneath my tongue suffer
because i try to bleed
but all that comes out is grey
and i am far more concerned with the awful poems
than i am with my colourless blood

this hollowness is the type
which typically accompanies sundown
when there is not enough light surrounding me
to compensate for whatever is eating away at my insides

this hollowness
usually disappears after a shower
and sleep
but the residue of which can hang onto my gut
persistently reminding me

i've never had love that felt safe
in which the world held its breath
and righted itself

not even when i'd sat next to a girl i pretended i loved
who wrote me poems
and smiled at me in all the right ways
and hurt me so poetically, i could never blame her

even she could not get me drunk enough
melting and compliant
to feel like we fit together well

though i've spent a great number of my days
sitting alone in bed wishing she was next to me
i know her laughter is not as infectious as i want to believe
and i want her to kiss my apathy away
trail her fingers and replace my skin with fire
but she could only make my bones
feel too large, skin too tight

still, i want her to kiss me
so i drink enough that my eyes slide shut
and she's so much prettier
and i let her hold me;
force my body to melt and fit against hers
until i can kiss her;