Hollowed Out

by Poetry

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I opened my eyes, it wasn’t me looking out.
I’m trying to reclaim my body from you; the great
valleys of your fingernails still stretch and end in
deep mines, emptied of the natural goodness
carved original sin sold off to the highest bidders.

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I spoke, it wasn’t me speaking out.
I’m trying to reclaim my tongue from you; the horrors
you have been through slipping through my teeth
like the wind cracking through ancient alleyways
in dying cities breast-beating rejuvenation.

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I heard, it wasn’t me hearing it.
I’m trying to reclaim my ears from you; the slip-
sliding away of relative identity, the sounds of foreign
bodies became to me the endless majesty of being,
as fuel for more songs you could record and sell in the streets.

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I tried to feel, it wasn’t me touching.
You slid your bones inside my fingers; the burning
connections on your calloused skin so sensitive through
my scratched and pierced tips, and you recoiled from everyone,
every woman I wanted who wanted me, you pushed them away.

You hollowed me out and lived in my skin.
When I tried to blame you for it, I couldn’t.
You didn’t want to wear me so totally; the desperate
man that I was did it myself, I opened my body and
wrapped around your ghosts and made it punishment;
you hollowed me out and lived in my skin.

I’m sorry for that.

I don’t think I can ever make it up to you.

You know it’s getting bad again when you’re holding conversations with your whisky. I think, so long as it doesn’t start talking back, I’m probably alright.

Free eBooks

modern poetry
Carey Poet


poets; happy to tell you
you have a broken smile
& they’ll keep you from splints
& medicines
so they can tell you over
& over again


Wooden fingertips of electricity puncturing the heavy mist, the mist that doesn’t dance from molecule to molecule, the mist that doesn’t spread like wildfire, the mist that doesn’t expand like the crackle of napalm, but is slow, pregnant and mute, the mist that weeps...


there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care

On Passion

Mightn’t it make more sense to spill my passions out upon the floor, Than direct it in meaningless frustration at these hollow keys, And the clicking clatter of their tombstone impact upon the white-page door – To ignore the lure of life’s great, dreadful typewriting...