It is a love/hate relationship
between loneliness and me.
It holds the admiration
while I try to make it see
that I only have animosity
for the bitter solitude it
forces me to feel.
It makes me sick
to believe it is real.
The emptiness of
this house
and the dead plants around it
pushes me to speak,
to call out
for someone else
who I hope is there
but the only response I get
is the end of my voice breaking,
beginning to tear.
This is the vacancy
that encompasses me
day after day
following me and crushing me
while it stays on my back where it
continues to lay.
And I sit in my shame,
slowly slipping away from myself.
I feel like the only person I have known
that knows the meaning of
the word
Alone.