There’s a hole down inside.
It’s always there,
Hidden under the present: activities... thoughts...
It never vanishes, lurking in the dark, waiting.
You don’t notice it in your daily routine:
the store, gas station, laundry, meals.
A messy house doesn’t bring it to light, nor does a clean one.
But that first star? Yes.
The bit of chill at the onset of autumn? Yes.
A colorful leaf? Yes.
And now the spotlight is on.
The hole yawns, deep, foreboding, waiting, hungry.
But it doesn’t suck anything in.
It pours out pain, anguish, hidden memories, lost happiness.
It hurts as much as the first time,
The day someone said,
“I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do.”
And I curl up and die inside. Again.
