I feel a strange, dusty sort of emptiness inside me.
To be a chocolate easter bunny,
With a thin layer
Of poor quality effort
To be sweet and desired.
The void exists between my ribs
Instead of breathing lungs and a
beating heart and veins of life and
A fury monster disguised as a fragrant flower
Bursting through the soil of my skin,
And be coloured with the grumbling, trembling, bumbling delicacies of
A changing soul.
I am void. I am hollow. I am young.