call of the void

the cool, abyssal embrace, liquid and always moving,
trails behind you only an inch away.
you feel it breathing with lungs it doesn’t have,
and it moves away before you can touch it.

this is the void. the void is your home and it loves you,
it knows how much you want to come back.
you feel like you should, but you don’t.
you think there’s something wrong with you.

it’s nothing. forget about it.

-

you don’t remember, but it’s always there for you.
you first met it by the bus stop.
without any sound, it spoke to you.
your stop is not at the bus, but in front of it.

the tires crush the bones in your legs first.
white spires erupt from their prison of flesh.
slowly, carefully, with cruel deliberation,
they flatten your insides out.

all feeling rushes in from the outside,
compressing into a ball in your chest
so you don’t hear the screaming.
you’re almost there. wait a little longer.

you step onto the bus.

-

years later, you visit beachy head for no reason.
you go high, high up, until you stop.
right in front of you is the end of the earth.
the border where land fails to exist.

after there is only sea and sky.
even the sea will run dry and become nothing,
and the sky will swallow the world.
the bright, burning sun scorches you before you touch it.

the signs tell you you shouldn’t be here.
you already know why, but it’s why you are.
on the bottom of that cliff, there is no sun.
it smiles without warmth. they wait for you at home.

you feel like a child.

-

you’ve been sitting here for hours.

-

you should go back now.

-

it’s getting late.

-

you find no beauty in rocks, sand, and water.
something else gravitated you to this place.
maybe, you think, this is what freedom looks like.
in the distance is a sea of choice.

swarms of flies dart around you.
your family loves you. you have a place here.
you’re great and everything is going to be okay.
just promise to never leave.

you smile, and you tell them:

i’m fine. forget about it. i’m going home.