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Somedays it seems that yearning is the only thing I'm good at, like the empty abyss that's carved its way into me sucked in all the things I can do and only tossed the empty husks of an echo back. There's a yawning cavern, like the empty box I got for my birthday. Every time I try to get something it fill it it's either too big or too small. Nothing ever fits right. I wish someone could love me the way I know I could love me. What must one do to earn it, and why do we have to? We were all placed here by forces that were not our own, why must we pay for or existence with so much suffering? 

Most days, and even most of today, the world feels so abundantly good. The sun shines through tress, the flora and fauna around me grows, the water that is drunk and used has been used by everyone before me, and will be used by everyone after. But right now the chasm in me leaks out, it spills it's tar onto my walls and weighs me down with it's ravenous tendrils. A sundew of rejection and solitude.

I want to tear it out and uproot it, I want someone to take a chisel to my walls and smooth them out, make them habitable once more. At the same time I want to nurture the weed and care for it, peel away the dark slop and make it green once more. Carnivorous as it is it'd still eat me, but maybe it needs love too. It didn't ask to be here either, who am I to turn it away when I'm the one who grew it.