I keep writing these poems
emptying my chest onto paper
thinking somehow
this will make it feel less hollow
thinking someday
these words won't be so tortured
but every scratch of pen
every patch of black or blue
covering something that just
didn't fit right
looks so vacant
and everything I say
is starting to sound the same
I am pulling words from a thesaurus
trying to rephrase the ache
into something I haven't felt before
trying to justify
why I haven't been able to fix this yet
talking myself into a fire
this ink is gasoline
and combustion
is something I am all too familiar with