It is nothing to fill the void,
with sweet things and a metallic aftertaste,
but always i feel it should be empty, so i
leave it. There is no point
in filling an emptying pit.

And i think my socks are wearing thin,
because what was yesterday a scab
is bitter and angry today, a
gaping hole on my heels that seems
to always be wrong place, wrong time.

It is nothing to stay quiet.
What i lack in words, my body screams for me, in
bruises and amnesia and wet
ears always primed and ready for a call that will never come.