I’m a gaping hole,

a flipped bucket

waiting to be filled,

only to be robbed of

sustenance once again.

In the pursuit of something

I already hold - it’s not ambition

when you’re chasing your own tail

hands-first.

Fruitless: body, ideas, fingertips - all

without the flowery scent of adolescence,

instead rank with regurgitated

self-confidence and leftover shame.

Bloated sadness with no escape

from its breeding ground, not even

the darkness can absorb the pain.

So it sits on me, making me seem heavier

than I appear.

She weighs me down.

She weighs me down.

Oh, but I drag on.