Empty of emotions

A year has passed and I still make horrendous mistakes like waiting for you in a parking lot; admiring the March sun in all its glory; screaming at people I saw my reflections in.

I sit here to write down my heart and I'm empty of emotions and ink to spill. An insomniac with a poetic mind, when lay at night under the thousand stars, I can't quite see but maybe I'm not sure what words it'll bleed. Maybe my heart is empty, full of love no one cares to decipher and the ache no one minds to share.

You write in hope of filling yourself with remorseful words and apologies, with those wishes you missed to make until the shooting star disappeared, the lover of your dreams and romanticise about things that do not happen. And I'm writing to empty myself of the emotions I can't undo. I'm writing about my empty heart, the heart that contains an infinite number of emotions and I'm romanticising feeling nothing.

It is always a hit-and-run; you say April is an angel and I almost throw up. My heart is always open but devoid, apparently, of all life. I look out of the window, dozing off; looking at both of my hands and all the things that would kill me. There is no surety of agoraphobia because I am not actually afraid of leaving the house. In fact, I have done everything I can to not open the door ever again.