I am stolen,
My pulverized flesh ancient as whitewash.
Nothing grows but the rot
That festers in my bones like a malignancy.
I am exhausted
Of life, of revolving doors,
Of this life (my life) which is not life –
The evaluation, the competition, the people
With knives for smiles, the people
Who love me but cannot seem to remember it.
I close my eyes.
Static blackness rushes towards me like a death.
It is very quiet here
And when I imagine all things have disappeared
It is the emptiness of wanting, the aching feeling –
That breaks my heart.