fill in the blanks.

“And it’s four in the morning
I’m just trying to fix myself
What the hell did I do?”

~*~

blankness.

a constant void

washed-out

into a bleached white

still dirty, yet everything

has been scrubbed out

fastidiously, like

the writings on a blackboard

and the chalk dust

lingers in your fingertips,

the kind that you can’t blow away

and you’re stuck with

that unpleasant texture on your

hands for the rest of the day.

you’re zeroed-out;

multiplied, divided, and subtracted

until even the calculator

doesn’t know how to answer

except for a shameful

syntax error…

you don’t know where you

went wrong in your calculations.

now you’re staring dully

at the beige ceiling

listening to the rhythms

of a nameless music attempt vainly to

make your heart bleed, but it’s

all fucking static to you,

just another distraction to

keep you grounded

as gravity drags

you down in your grave

without even so much as a

respectful funeral or a dated tombstone.

your thoughts are as

senseless as every nerve in

your once-hurting flesh

your body got used to the pain,

one might dare guess

but the truth is you can’t feel it anymore

because it’s no longer your own—

to control, to use, to move around in to

your free will and accord

and you’re just pretending to perform,

waiting for the fateful day that the

puppeteer snaps your marionette strings, and

you drop lifelessly on the

shabbily-decorated stage of your existence.

you don’t even know where these

nonsensical thoughts are originating from;

all you know is the constant empty

sensation, a flatlined perception,

draining every bone in your borrowed body

physically, emotionally, and mentally

until you’re nothing more than

an amorphous bag of viscera

dripping numbly on that plastic chair

still gawping insensibly at the

rorschach beige ceiling, all the way to pure

ｂ　ｌ　ａ　ｎ　ｋ　ｎ　ｅ　ｓ　ｓ———