I’m full,
there is no room inside of me
every bone has been dipped in a thick coat
of something
sweet or sick
and every crevice has been poured all over,
now bowls of mixed icky stews –
I am full
there is no room for another hand
or fingerprint
or lemon poundcake

I am full, but I feel bare;
and I still don’t want you there

my body is heavy
with gooey webs of ghoul guilt and there is pressure
on my chest to pick myself up,
and get on with it
even as evil weighs me down,
tires me down,
pries me down,
and laughs at me struggling

I feel so full
there is no room to be smiled at
or even looked at;
there is no more room to store your stories
or secrets
or tears
or trust; it’ll all come falling down
like the London bridge
and I’d collapse underneath, into poisonous gasps and groans
of relief
that finally,
I
get
to
die.

I am full but I feel so empty
and I don’t want to die,
but I want to die;
but I mostly don’t want to die;
I just feel so empty
and I don’t want to be around you
because it doesn’t make it any easier
for me
to love me