Pricks and pinches,
slices and sores.

I’m full of empty
unless you count pain.
I’ve enough of that
to spread around.

Holes and hideouts,
deserts and dungeons.

I’m lost among familiars,
their faces poking
into a reality empty of full.

Shattered and shaken,
busted and broken.

I’m a mirror in pieces
on a dirty floor,
and I don’t know
if I’m real
or if I’m dreaming
of his face,
his fingers
gripping mine
until I feel whole again.




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