I’m picking up

the pieces of

a life that is



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.



Shaking hands.

Eyes watching.

From the corner.

Are they looking at me?                                            



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.




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:







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.