Nothing. Just Pain. - 1/29/07

I hurt.
It’s as simple as that –
a pain no physician
could ever heal –
a broken heart –
a wounded soul –
a blood-stained, washed-up, maggot-ridden…
nothing.

I am you.
I am me.
I am her
and him
and it
and they
and them
and every pronoun you don’t know.
I’m that fool on the skateboard
with his long hair and braces,
pretending to be something he’s not –
someone he’s not –
something, anything more than nothing.
I’m that cigarette hanging from your mouth,
gripped between your orange fingers
and stained by your saliva.
I’m the dirt you step on
as you walk away from me,
your head held high
like you’ve got something to be proud of.
You don’t look back.
You never look back.
That’s my job, isn’t it?

So it’s that simple.
My role is cast –
nothing.

She asks what’s wrong.
She says she cares.
I can’t believe.
It doesn’t matter that I hurt.
You didn’t care –
why should she?
To you I was just nothing.
She asks what’s wrong.
I answer:
Nothing.