i might have become
         h o l l o w
         as the bottles i drank
                       numb
             as my cold fingers
      e m p t y
        as the inbox on my phone
         disoriented
  as how this poem is typewritten

how much more naiveté
do i have to go through
in order to realize
because i know im hurting
yet i dont know how to explain the pain

she was correcting
one  
     by
         one
all the mistakes of her past,
with an eraser and a pencil
in a bleak room painted clinical white.