Core of Me

Sometimes I feel like I have no core
and instead of the normal things,
the human things, like happiness and comfort,
understanding and growth,
that cavity inside my chest is just filled 
with tears and hurt and fear and anger, 
and every word that someone has ever said to me.

Sometimes the words are nice,
Sometimes, feeling coreless is nice.
No complexities, just a numb expanse
where I can float and think and fall forever.
Sometimes it’s like the sun 
takes up that space and shines and shines
and shines again until I’m all burnt out
and all that’s left in me is smoke.

And sometimes that smoke gets dark
and wet and it feels heavy, so heavy,
and it sinks to the bottom of that pit
that was created when someone
or something took the centre out of me.

Right now the core of me feels like it’s flooding.
And it’s weird, because I haven’t had a core for a while.
But it plunked itself back in, without permission, without warning,
and now it’s full to the brim and filling up still.
Those words that you said and the ones that you didn’t
when you put yourself in the middle of a battle that was never yours
keep pouring into that space that came out of nowhere.

The messages you sent before you locked me out
echo through my middle and make me ache:

How’s life? I partly understand. Lots of love.
She tells a different story. I will not tell you what to do or say.
I know she loves us all too much. Take some time to breathe.

Where did all of those words go?
You handed me an apple with all the trappings of safety
and then you went and you cored it.
The comfort you gave when she said those words that shook me,
snatched away just as easily when I didn’t forgive and forget.

And so now I’m nothing,
I just think I know it all?
I thought I knew something.
I thought I knew it in my core.

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