I have found myself a home

- 019

Empty as you are, that's just what you are.

How do you fill in the hollow? How many people have you consumed to cover up the hollow? Whose voice did you try to contain, whose hands did you familiarize today? What kind of silhouette did they make? Whose reality did you try to dissect?

How do you fight something that's naturally inherent to you? Were you born with a void in your chest? Or did it form on the long run of trying what kind of person would fit in only for you to realize that no matter how many they are, the hunger remains and so your hunt begins.

And you cry over spilled milk, and your happiness is as simple as that but you complicate things because you're trying to fight the inevitable. What's the inevitable? That you enjoy long walks but your stomach shudders at the thought of you being alone? Your love is conditional. You love to be loved back. You manipulate the results and in disappointment that love isn't attainable over tiny words, or acting pitiful you bite your skin and so your butchery begins.

Make me love you. Why don't I love you?

You cry for not loving.

If love saves all, why can't it save me?

You cry for the emptiness.

Why can't I love you?

For your love is conditional. You love to be loved back. And so your hunt begins to remove everything that you have consumed, and you let the emptiness be empty, you let the emptiness swallow you instead and as you wallow over spilled milk, you spill blood in exchange for a sensation that would feel like your saviour. The viper on your skin, crawls onto your wrist and as blood runs dry on the arterioles of your skin, will love come crawling and save you from the misery?

No. There's no hero in your story, nor a saviour, nor a saint. But why is there an antagonist when there is no protagonist? Why do you antagonize the pain of emptiness when you, yourself is the reason for it all.

You tainted your hands with blood spilled from your teeth, for you have the need to consume because the void calls for it. And then you cry for the spilled milk, you cry over spilled milk, you cry over the gushing of flesh and clashing of utensils. You cry over the emptiness of your bed, you cry over the weather. The leaves have fallen and so has your body. The will to hold on has gone through the railings. Your bloodied hands from the bruise acquired, your scar acquired from the cutting of veins. You find reason in taking substances, you find will in consuming voices. You find nothing on the sidewalk, you find nothing in your home. The plates are broken, you have vomited it all. Yet it still haunts you. They haunt you the way you ran and hunted them. Your teeth weren't washed. The evidence is clear. The void calls for it and so you kill for it. And so, and so, and so, you touched the void.

And the void touches you back.

And you never returned to earth. You died as you are. As you are. What were you? With a blade in your hands, you pray to the God you call your lover for he called you an angel. But you're no angel. You were just what you are and you died not knowing what you are.