A poem I wrote today called I Didn’t Care.
The emptiness is a fullness in its own way.
Filling me with the courage to put one foot in front of the other for another day.
Another hour. Push it off until after you shower.
I’m not that hungry—and it wouldn’t matter if I was.
Because it’s only when my body is close to shattering,
When it screams and cries about it mattering—
Then it’s real. Then I can feel.
And when it’s too much, I turn to numbers.
Their voices loud, like the thunder’s.
It keeps the silence away.
In the silence, the monsters like to play.
And I can’t be there; monsters don’t play fair.
I run and let numbers shout so I can survive.
The number going down on the scale like a bribe.
It’s a barbed wire lie winding around me—
Caging and maiming, but whispering, “You’re free.”
And sometimes, I am.
But some days, it’s like repairing an always broken dam.
Water pouring in—but hey, no dinner is a win.
Back and forth, like tug of war with my self-worth—
Or lack thereof.
You think someday it will be enough.
And when it’s not, you sit there shocked, like they didn’t tell you.
But I always knew.
I could feel those lies viscerally in the air.
I just didn’t care
