A poem I wrote today called I Didnāt Care.
The emptiness is a fullness in its own way.
Filling me with the courage to put one foot in front of the other for another day.
Another hour. Push it off until after you shower.
Iām not that hungryāand it wouldnāt matter if I was.
Because itās only when my body is close to shattering,
When it screams and cries about it matteringā
Then itās real. Then I can feel.
And when itās too much, I turn to numbers.
Their voices loud, like the thunderās.
It keeps the silence away.
In the silence, the monsters like to play.
And I canāt be there; monsters donāt play fair.
I run and let numbers shout so I can survive.
The number going down on the scale like a bribe.
Itās a barbed wire lie winding around meā
Caging and maiming, but whispering, āYouāre free.ā
And sometimes, I am.
But some days, itās like repairing an always broken dam.
Water pouring inābut hey, no dinner is a win.
Back and forth, like tug of war with my self-worthā
Or lack thereof.
You think someday it will be enough.
And when itās not, you sit there shocked, like they didnāt tell you.
But I always knew.
I could feel those lies viscerally in the air.
I just didnāt care
