ugliness.
i force myself over and over to
pry this thing apart from you,
but i know that
i have been manipulated in a way
that makes me scream without the sound,
so fucking hard and so fucking quiet,
and so much fucking harder because i scream
so quietly,
forcing any feeling to run faster than
the loudest beatings of that
stupid
fucking
thing
inside my chest.


there is a place,
a raging confined space inside,
made for the weakness it takes to hate,
and an aching void, begging anything outside
of it to step right in,
but nothing crosses the threshold,
because nothing is strong enough.
the nothing is biggest and truest
and my being longs to feel nothing,
to give nothing, to take nothing,
to not be moved by the hiding beauty
any longer because what does
movement mean when we are alone?