I was thinking of places that I could hide.

There is an empty flower pot inside my chest, under the hair, under the skin, the muscle, bone, waiting to bloom, and no matter what I do it can’t. I can sometimes feel it start to bud, but nothing. It’s empty. No soil, no water, no sunlight. I need there to be flowers, bushes, weeds even (I like them). It is the saddest thing I have ever felt. I can’t even feel my heart beat anymore, it’s like there is nothing there. I think that if I were to cut my chest open I could have a party in the empty space. No blood, no organs, just a blank canvas of muscle and skin, waiting to be painted. My body is sick of staring at these white walls. I’m so empty that I can’t even draw properly. I left my sketch book in the backseat of my car for about a week, and I didn’t even care. I don’t want this feeling anymore.

I feel blank, empty, and incomplete. I don’t know why…well, I might but I don’t want that to be the reason. I feel…like I’m second best. In everything. I feel like I’m just there, whatever, it’s only Andrew, who cares about him? I feel myself getting hurt. I feel myself working, trying to get passed this, but I can’t. Every touch feels meaningless, every hug is empty. I feel myself getting dragged out to sea, to be lost, floating in water for the rest of my life. I don’t even care about school anymore. The bank that we used last year for my loan no longer does loans, so now we need to find another, and if we can’t I really don’t care. I don’t care if I go back. I want to just go away. I want to move away, far away, from everybody, and just lay in an all white room, in a big fluffy bed, under a white down comforter, with Brittany as dawn slowly hits us, and there’s nothing we can do but waste the day away. I can’t do that though, I only see her once a week, and it’s tearing me apart. I was so use to waking up, and hanging out, texting all day, thinking nothing of staying in and watching endless movies because tomorrow we can do the same exact thing. I feel so hollow, like a part of me was carved out. I don’t even think my body will let me cry anymore. I’m just there, just a person. I have Andrew characteristics, the same eyes, my nose still gets stuffy all the time, still have the same unattractive stomach hanging over my jeans, same hands, but there is no deeper layer, no core. There’s no batteries in my body to make me go. This pot is slowly chipping, and all I want is fucking sunlight.


I'll take you home if you don't leave me at the front door