There is nothing beautiful inside me, anticipating its chance to bloom.
There is no reality behind the person
no girl waiting to be saved.
All that's destitute is left:
this shell of human skin that refuses to shed
my collapsing, one-track mind, wasting in its skull
the untried rawness in my heart, and its impotent beat.
I've tried my hand at molding my thoughts
just to see them harden and fracture
just to watch parts of myself leak
seep through every tense pore
and boil back down to nothing.
Sooner or later
these worn hands will grow weak from so much sculpting
and I will grow tired of my trade.