EMPTY
I’m picking up
the pieces of
a life that is
predictably
pathetic;
staring at the
floor with my
head hung,
staring until my
eyes burn; still
no matter how
much I try, there
is nothing more than
a tiny twitch
of my fingertips
and the endless spinning
wheel of my brain going
on and on and on and on and over
the events of the day, of the endless
fuck-ups, and all I feel is nothing
(if nothing is even something that a person can feel).
All I can do is
sit here on the
floor with eyes
barely open and
my brain like
static while my
body is a statue, left
alone by passersby to
become entwined
with weeds and vines that
wrap around me and
squeeze so tightly; but
there is no attempt to
stop it—
there is absolutely nothing
that can be done until enough
time has passed that the nothingness
which encases me, the emptiness inside that
has taken hold, relents and retreats, and only then
can I crawl into bed and hope that when I wake up, I feel
something more than empty.
BREATHLESS
Shaking hands.
Eyes watching.
From the corner.
Are they looking at me?
Yes?
No?
Out of time?
Take a breath.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Curled up on the floor.
Toppled; glass half full.
Breathing underwater.
It’s not that hard.
Come on.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
INTRUDER
We sit in the car,
quiet as the street lights
flicker past.
Swallowed by the darkness.
I don’t love you.
No one does.
Who could ever love you?
No, none of this.
My hands tighten around the wheel,
knuckles bone-white.
You’d be better off-
That’s enough of that.
Not this time, you hear?
I’ll drown you out if I have to.
Radio cranked all the way up:
Better
to
be
deaf
than
dead.
Taralyn is a graduating BFA student that doesn’t know exactly where she wants to go in life, but writing fiction and poetry makes everything a little bit easier. Find her work through issues #4 to #7 of ScratchThat Magazine and her socials.