The critical state of hollowness

       I enjoy sitting in the corner of the room with the lights off & reminding that things once were a heavier burden for me to carry within. Yet it just doesn't mean that they aren't still as heavy as they once have been. I keep this burden here inside so I'm not injuring anyone else but me, so I'm not being unfair with anyone else, so I'm getting what I deserve & then letting go of it like I let go of people only in appearance; because their ashes are still here inside & they burn me up like I was a home set on fire. I'm a destroyed home, though I'm not a home for my old self any longer, and I keep thinking that maybe this is the right thing, that maybe this is the best, so I won't be hurt anymore, so I'll just inhale & exhale this carbon monoxide without harming anyone's feelings, so I'll just be me; & being me is hurtful.

       I keep myself from things that may harm the within me irreversibly, because the outside might heal someday, though it's not really accurate since I've been injured a thousand years ago & I still can recall these odd & quite sad facts just by a sudden, simple glance at any  mirror before my eyes. I said this is hurtful. I said I am. And I've been told so, either.