all night
i tried to
write
and the words
fell
from the
hole in my
center to
tumble listlessly
onto the floor
in a pile
of squirming
illegibility.

i am
emptynulldevoid
a walking
enigma of
negative worth
incapable of
beauty.

or maybe
it’s just a
bad night.

i can’t seem
to tell
the difference
any longer.

i wish
i could find
the words
in the
ephemeral
nothingness
scrape together
enough to
satiate
the need
which sits
an oilslick
of sickness
at the rim
of this hole
in my center.

maybe i’m
tired.