A Hole that Nothing Dug

You asked me

to explain empty,

but it doesn’t seem

like anything worth entertaining.

It’s just empty — broken, bearing

holes in my lungs again,

searching for the edge

of this pit I fell in.

It’s intimate numbness,

pinned down

by the grit of nothingness

because I know what used to be.

Empty is the hollow core of a body

begging to be

filled with purpose, melody,

anything, but the only thing is empty.

Dull senses

are like stones plunging

through the expansive

cavern between my ribs

with nothing

to keep them,

tell me they’re mine,

make me feel alive.

You asked me to explain empty,

but how do you paint

a vacancy

that can never be

filled?