I am a shell.
All of my insides,
the things that give me worth,
the qualities I think make me,
I have scooped out.
They have been ripped from the hard membrane and cast aside.
By my own doing,
I am picking and pulling, analyzing and scrutinizing
all that I think I am,
all that I could be.
I ripped out meat, the goods.
I have now taken away
the contrivance of my being.
I am diminishing, dwindling my own worth.
I am nothing.
I am just a shell.
As I try to replenish and restore
with empty diversions,
loud acoustics, the occasional piece of literature,
or the aperiodic self-soothing fast food meal,
I realize that I am too far gone.
I am empty.
I am a shell.