Thereâ€™s a stutter of vacancy behind your ribcage.
You press on it, hoping to staunch the flow.
Nothing shows on the outside.
Nobody knows youâ€™re bleeding out.
You continue to smile and laugh.
Even you believe the lie,
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.
You soldier on,
Marching ever forward.
Youâ€™re simply killing time.
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.
Itâ€™s the place where you were once whole,
now, now, nowâ€”vacant.
Crying in desperation.