The Writers Voice
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T L Taylor
The emptiness is again surrounding me
like a terror filled screaming abyss
it swallows me whole.
And you do not understand, you blame yourself,
and I, sometimes, blame you too.
But I know it is just me, the me that was
before you, the me that will exist after you
the me that will always be.
There was a time when I had convinced myself
that you, your love—the purest and
most beautiful thing I had
ever known or felt—like a parachute would
arrest my descent and allow me to find a safe place
a quiet place to land.
But the gravity of the emptiness was, is,
too great, and filled with too much ugliness
and decay for even you and the constancy
and unrelenting-ness of your love.
It is just me who is falling,
just me who cannot escape
the endless inescapable pull of the nothingness
that is my heart, my soul, my mind.
It is just me that fears for your safety,
just me that believes that if you stay you
will be sucked in with me; for so great
is the evil of the darkness within, so uncaring
so incredibly black and limitless
that it could become just me and you
when it should be just me.
Just me that has no hope, just me.
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