Pangs.

How the days drip, drip, drip,  

eroding my fragile insides,  

     carving at my lungs  

until my scream is lost,  

gnawing at my pancreas  

until the sweet fruits of my labor—

I cannot taste because I reserve it all

for a maybe someday.

       My wrenched eyes  

weep away what remains,

leaving behind only a hollow cavern,  

empty, and nothing more.  

      It's how the Grand Canyon,  

which I’ve never seen, was made,  

and like it,  

I will grow too vast to ignore.  

Then some silly girl will mourn  

never having seen me,  

and drag her sticky-fingered, fussy kids  

to gawk at my gaping void.  

      For a moment,  

she might consider  

leaping into my vastness,  

to live inside my hollowed-out heart,  

or perhaps die a female martyr,

but instead, she will shrug it off,  

as just a fleeting, foolish-girl thought.  

So she moves on to the gift shop;

      "It's just a empty hole, kids. Overrated."

Spend my whole life making myself

something grand for her

only to discover 

       —she's just like the dudes.