Sinkholes of Emptiness by Mariah E. Wilson

I don’t have scars

I have holes, gaping craters

where love used to be.

Grand canyons of loss

as friends vanished into memory.

Life was a sniper and she plucked

them from me one by one,

by one, until there were none.

Time is a wizard

who changes people

from the friends you knew

into people who don’t have a clue

of how much empty space they left.

I don’t have scars, I have place cards,

shiny red markers with names

scrawled across in pained calligraphy.

I hold those spaces for you.

Not you, but the person you used to be,

the who you once were when the two of us were we.

I don’t have scars

I have trenches you can drive cars through,

two by two.

I have sinkholes of emptiness

where happiness used to be.

I have spaces so cavernous

my voice echoes eternally.

My shouts run in circles

avoiding the chasms in my foundation
that open up like zippers as they scream,

           Don’t go.

                        Please stay.

                                    Come back.

In the empty spaces
everything fades to black.
I don’t have scars.
I have sinkholes of emptiness
where happiness used to be.