Spit it out

I feel this bitter unhappiness in the

Pit of my

Stomach

That leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

I try to spit it out,

Rid myself of it,

But it still remains.

It’s almost as though I am a shell,

And someone has scooped

My innards out, leaving me with

Nothing.

No feeling,

Not even that unhappiness,

Just a strange sense of

Having no identity.

It makes me feel invisible or translucent.

People can see right through me.

I am hollow.

There is nothing left of me.

I have been skinned and gutted,

Though I still manage to live.

How? Why?

I didn’t ask for this life,

For this complicated rhapsody of emotions.

My words paint themselves on the page,

Scribbling out of the pen as though they are trying to escape,

To flee.

It leaves me.

 

The pen writes no more.