On Being Blank

On Being Blank

The blank in me is heartbreakingly heated up, sizzling its fire through my guts, and they said I was all these things after I couldn't argue my side anymore. They didn't know me so well or the blackbirds that fly furious at my heels, propelling me toward your hands. Those are the palms whose roads I traverse, whose sweat consoles me. I am there when you turn the talkative door handle and let the wind rupture my name, bitter wind-- it takes me through your selfish sleeves. Hear the echo of shadow in the tortured hours between dusk and dawn? This light is yanking me like a tug of law, of which I want no part in. I'd be fine to rest my head in your hook of your neck for the length of this season, hunger do what it may. Space is all that troubles me now, with its expanse and freedom. I can tell you now, freedom is not my thing. I reckon, your reckless now that I have become blank. When we meet again, we will make new words for all the old words we despise, and we'll both be blank and so the space will be much less dense. I'll continue to wait behind the certain curtain, where I peer through to you. As the wind picks up, perk up your ears as I whistle happy-go-lucky for you, even though my insides are confused wings with distorted visions of home. When you dream, my blankness isn't blackness. When you dream I am not a fleeting like the dull ache of loneliness, thank you. Isn't blank a much kinder word than dead? Let's be blank instead.