The Middle

Today I don’t know what I want. It’s much like yesterday, the day before, the day before.

Today I’m stuffed with cotton. Soaking it all up, clean and white like snow. I’m stripped of feathers, hung up on a wall. Clear like glass, hard as bone.

The middle’s been gutted, the outer petrified stone. Empty, but there’s so much room in me. And so much space to fill, far too much time to kill.

What a shame. What a bore.

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