Ode to Nothing

My erythrocytes are letters
my blood is tomato soup made of english and iron
paper cuts are spelling bees
blisters ooze puss and punctuation.
Sometimes I feel if I ever bled out
the crime scene would smell of ink.
A murder mad-lib with one chalk blank filled in
by a cadaver with two types of colons.
My corpse can be found under ‘untitled document’

Words- you and I are synonymous.
You mean absolutely nothing
And you are our everything.
Eat your heart out, Rene Magritte.

You are little paper airplanes, swirling in caravans
through our atmosphere of incomprehension
always landing somewhere different than the intended destination.
you travel up the cochlear or cornea
sometimes scraping as you go
leaving an aftertaste of grape cough syrup.
Don’t be embarrassed-
I scrape when digested too.

You’re our doublethink-
our agreed gibberish.
Malleable in every sense of the word
yet unflinchingly governed by repetition.
I love you,
My nothings.

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