And whoever thought it’d reach this point?

I am so empty.
I need someone to fill me up, this cavity in my chest.
Nothing I write makes sense,
Nothing I write is honest,
not even this,
why would it when I haven’t been able to feel
anything real in the past twelve months?

I used to be so emotional that I hated myself for it.
Feeling so much beauty for the world
that it felt like my chest would burst.
Having so much love to give that no one wanted to receive
that it felt like my heart would spill over.

And now nothing makes sense anymore.
I’ve stopped living in the grey areas of life,
I’ve been seeing things in black and white.
And everything I write or think is ****.
It’s not real, it’s not real and I
want to rip up this ****** poem
and scream my ******* head off until I can feel
something besides the crinkled edges of paper
on my palms.

I would rather be a little girl
with shards of glass living inside her
not being able to breathe without her ribs
feeling like they might shatter,
than be this zombie immune to pain
shuffling daily through life’s routines,
not caring for the homeless,
not caring for the senile,
not giving two ***** about the
who-gives-a-****-about-them-at-least-it’s-not-me
that were killed or are starving in wherever-*******-country
on the news last night.

I used to think apathy was the secret to life.
That it would be better to feel absolutely nothing
than have to live with the pain of feeling absolutely everything.
But I’d rather write something that nobody likes;
embarrassing cringe-worthy words full of promise that sound like
they were penned by an mentally unstable naive five year old,
than a viral masterpiece that sounds like it was written by
the next Sylvia Plath, devoid of meaning or feeling
besides writing for the sake of writing.

****.
****.
****. ******* ****.
Where has it all gone?