born without clothes

a poem

what remains when my mind is stripped bare

of everything that once felt like it mattered?

when the last of what i own leaks out

through my tears—

i hope god notices i’m empty

and comes to refill me;

like a waiter walking by an empty glass

with a pitcher of water…

what’s left of me

when there is nothing left of me?

i’ve always wondered.

when everything but my body

packs its bags and leaves—

what stays?

the answer isn’t what i wanted it to be

(although, i’m not sure i wanted anything),

but through the blur of my tears—

which streamed from my eyes

like prisoners when security fails—

i saw a spider weaving a web

between a few blades of grass.

and through the storm clouds of my perception—

i couldn’t see what color it was.

i was just curious. nothing else.

i genuinely thought i already posted this one months ago. like, was mandela-effect convinced… but anyway, thank you for reading 🖤

em

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