Nothing Shows


There’s a stutter of vacancy behind your ribcage.
You press on it, hoping to staunch the flow.
Nothing helps.
Nothing shows on the outside.
Nobody knows you’re bleeding out.
You continue to smile and laugh.
Even you believe the lie,
Sometimes.
Your soul has been torn asunder.
Your insides a demolished war zone.
Canyons and craters.
Bruised and broken.
Shattered and gutted.
Nothing shows and nobody knows.
Not numb, more like, adjacent too.
How long have you been a partial?
Waiting for your missing parts.
Pieces went astray.
Embers now cold.
How long?
You forget.
You soldier on,
Marching ever forward.
You’re simply killing time.
In denial.
Misdirection preserves purity.
Misinterpretation is your puppet.
You find comfort in the suffering.
Part of it is yours and yours alone.
This fucking stutter continues.
It’s the place where you were once whole,
now, now, now—vacant.
Bleeding out.
Crying in desperation.
Nobody knows.
Nothing shows.

~Payne Hawthorne

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