What hole is it that I’m trying to fill?

Why am I eating my pain?

Why do I not feel loved?

Why do I not feel OK?

Why do I feel shame and guilt and pain?

Is it that you hurt me or I hurt you?

Is it that all the pain in the world feels like it is in my heart sometimes, just because I’ve seen your face?

And whether it’s the new face, or the old face – both have rejected me.

What hole am I trying to fill?

Am I not worthy of you?

Am I not worthy of myself?

What hole am I trying to fill with the food?

What thing am I punishing myself for?

Because I left? Because you left?


And even though I eat my pain, I attempt the fill the hole, I feel numb.

The outside is a shell of happy but the inside drips with emptiness and begs to be fed.

But have I not learned enough yet?

Have I not found the key? Have I not paid my dues?

What hole am I filling?

No, really, what is it because it is not apparent to me.

That I have rejected and been rejected?

Surely not.

But maybe so.

That I may never love again?

Surely not.

But maybe so.

Some days I wish I’d never met anyone, never loved anyone, never been loved.

Then I’d be the rock. The rock I was when I was 17. The rock that would be unmoved by you.

I’d be the dead tree trunk.

I’d be the barren landscape.

I’d be the knife with the eagle hilt.

I’d be the block city etched in metal.

I’d be the poems about death and sex and life and nothingness.

I’d be all that still, when I was 17, instead of now.

Eating my pain.

Filling the hole that I can’t find.

Practicing and practicing letting go and still failing.

Still failing. Still falling.

Still not ever going to be what you need me to be.

Not either of you.

Not either of you I could be who you wanted. Who you needed.

I could not be that person because I tip buckets of muck into the hole that will not be filled.

And it seems so inevitable. It seems so much like I’m watching myself with no control to stop it.

Behind glass. Just an onlooker. Separate.

What hole is it I’m trying to fill?

I just want to know so I can stop. Filling. It.

And I know I will look up again, when the hole is temporarily sated. But I just want to close that wound so it weeps no more. So it hungers no more for the thing that will ultimately destroy me.

Wishing you all the happiness the Universe can bring
A person


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