Vacant

Vacant

I hold my hand in the fire,
But I don’t feel the heat.
An empty box in an empty room.
A dark bulb in a dark house.

My skin begins to crack.
The flames turn bright, and their reflection
Is the only thing alive in my eyes anymore.
I don’t flicker like the flame.

A hand reaches out, and I cringe away.
Arms open, and I stiffen.
A hug means nothing, words even less.
Nothing can touch me. Nothing can hurt me.
Nothing can save me.

I’m cut off, isolated.
I don’t love, I don’t feel.
I don’t care.
I just am.

I am just a shadow on the wall, dancing
in the firelight.
I am real, but I am not real.
When I leave, it is as if I was never there
at all.
I leave behind no mark, no footprint.

I exist, but I do not live.
Food turns to ash on my tongue,
Laughter dies in my eyes.
My heart beats, but it does not break.

I do not change.
I do not grow.
I never feel pain.
I never feel anything else.

An immobile body, turning to
statue from the outside in,
A testament to the stone figure I have become.
But even when my blood turns to rock,
there will always be a hollow
deep inside of me,
deep in my chest—an empty spot.