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.

Mariah Wilson
Mariah E. Wilson is a writer from beautiful British Columbia. She has been published in Thin Air Magazine, Every Day Poets, The Kitchen Poet, Walking is Still Honest, Literary Orphans, and The Corner Club Press, for which she is also now the Poetry Editor.

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