Vacuous

This tipsy morning hunger is why I don't drink, why I don't need to. I've gotten especially good at getting high off of feeling empty inside. Shaky legs and floating head carry me across the threshold of my house, up the stairs and into the safety of my room after the dizzy, vacant-bellied bike ride that brought me through small-town patriotism. Now the game is about staying hollow.

Baby, I need you to climb inside me; this empty wanting girl is choosing you to fill her up. Make my head spin in multiple directions, my back sprout wings as it arches so that I can fly into the endless vertiginous void, calling out to you and to any gods I see along the way.

I'm getting off on reeling inspiration and your lips seems to be just everywhere. Kiss away this lonely daze and push me towards divine intervention where those nonexistant omnipresent deities can replace you in my inflation. Just push a little further and I won't need you anymore.

But then you leave. And all of the you that was in me is gone so there's nothing to hold me down. I'm a heavy-girl balloon and you just released my string, so I'm floating up.

Above this picture-perfect landscape of little girls grasping daddies' hands and mothers making pie, I'm high off my yearning, I'm vacuous inside.