Not Even Close.

Every effort feels more like painful dry-heaving than the last. There is nothing but an empty failure, a hollow intestinal wretch. Not even with paired fingers pushing, urging substance can I produce. Why, when I should be full on living, fat on experience, on love and excitement, is there nothing, not even a burning dribble of written proof? Where is my desperate syrup of ipecac? Where is the ground up, half digested evidence that once thrashed here with liveliness? I did relish this place. I would sneak away to purge my heartaches, my livid anger, my careless, blurry, sobbing pieces, and I didn't know you and I didn't care. These days it seems that I am empty before I even arrive.