It’s a funny thing, to feel hollow.

I tap my fingers on my chest

And hear a dull echo

As sound races through empty space.

There’s something missing,

I tell myself.

There should be something here.

My heart is there, I can hear it beating.

No, the hollow place is on my chest.

Like I’ve been turned inside out

And something that should be outside

Is inside

Trapped behind a cage of bone.

I tap at it with fingertips,

Trying to excavate what I know should be there

And let it breathe the sun and sky

But all I get is an echo.

My skin feels thinner

And thinner

And thinner.

Until I could break it with one more tap

And there would just be void inside.

It’s a funny thing, to feel hollow.

The void gets bigger some days

Until it threatens to swallow me whole.

I’ve tried stuffing it full.

Socks.

Shirts.

It helps

But the void is always there.

Some days I can’t tell where the void ends

And I start.

It’s not so funny, feeling hollow.

Not when trying to fill the hole

Becomes all you can really do

And it

Never

Works.