Full.
I am bubbling over with all of these
things.
These things which sift around inside
of me daily.
Just simmering until they are tender
and juicy enough to be served.
These things will be served on a
platter of fury.
A rage so bitter that the flavor of the
meal is sure to be tainted.
Poisoned by regret and diluted with all
that could have been.
A taste so unpleasant that no one dares
to go near it, let alone taste its sickeningly sweet pain.
These things are layered with
bittersweet tears and glazed with nights spent.
Constantly agonizing over these things
that will not
that can not
ever be changed.
Heaps of emptiness and mounds of thick
nothingness cover my plate.
These things relentlessly fill me,
never leaving me hungry.
I am full.
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