Nothing, still — my words are eggshells cracked under your feet. My fragments, my shards. Nothing. I float myself out on a sea of it, my legs are broken, bent from the weight of it. Nothing. This dying night, this death rattle, this slick obsidian. Nothing. I fall into myself all the time. The trap doors. The endless moats. I wanted more. Some kind of meaning. Nothing. Long books of it. Long looks of it. My mirror gets sick of me. So do the pens. And the men. And the friends. Nothing. Like a ghost that doesn’t know they’re dead. Nothing. There is a voice inside of me, but it’s so, so small. It feels like barely anything. Some days it’s nothing at all.


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