On Being Empty

I am not crazy, this is just Thursday.

And how could I not, bathed in the light of her wound, find my calling there?

My rape found me on my hypothetical blanket, poured gasoline on me, and lit a cigarette. At first, I thought I was okay. I went to class, continued going out to the club with friends, and I fucked. Fucking was my one reprieve from my thoughts, which at that point had succumbed slowly to the fire. They had picked a room in the house, painted it blue, locked the door, lit a few candles in a room, already becoming ash. Fucking allowed me to be silent, to be voided, to not exist.

the loneliness spills out of the box,               here onto my lap and up into all of it. a salty quiet         rushing in,    and of it, all of me.

The feeling I have, the flutter in my chest—this has nothing to do with being suicidal. I don’t want to die. I don’t even want to close my eyes. It’s more like this world is not enough for me.

“[H]e was more lonely than the contentment of this family love could help; that it even increased his loneliness, or made it hard for him not to be lonely. He felt that sitting out here, he was not lonely; or if he was, that he felt on good terms with the loneliness; that he was a homesick man, and that here on the rock, though he might be more homesick that ever, he was well. He knew that a very important part of his well-being came of staying a few minutes away from home, very quietly, in the dark, listening to the leaves if they moved, and looking at the stars; and that his […] own presence, was indispensable to this well-being.”

Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.

what if this burning turns me into a house unable to sing since the most a house can do is groan?

Once, I saw a bee drown in honey, and I understood.

I uttered my prayer : Give me your honey bless my tongue with rhyme, poetry, song.