Sometimes I write about nothing.
When I’m done,
I usually stare at it until I hate it.
Then I cross it out and regret
picking up my pen.
I get angry that I’m only good at
writing about the same things.
Over and over.
I’ll write about nothing.
I’ll just let the pen be the middleman
between my thoughts and the paper.
And I’ll write faster and my notes will get sloppier,
because I don’t want to forget all my nothing.
Then I’ll take a break.
Have a sip of wine, answer a text.
There is plenty of room for distraction
when you’re writing about nothing.
Why can’t I write about nothing?
Anything but love, heartbreak, or cancer.
Why does my life only seem to consist
of those three things?
Maybe it doesn’t.
But for whatever reason,
it’s all I seem to write about.
It’s all incredibly joyous
or incredibly sad.
There is no in-between.
There is no nothing.
I wish I could write about how
wine makes me tired and beer makes
Vodka makes me ambitious and tequila
makes me hate myself.
I wish I could write about my fears.
Not the grandeur ones about love and death.
But the irrational ones about getting eaten
by a shark or stepping on any creature on the
I wish I had a better idea of who I am.
Maybe that way I could write more about
So much has happened in twenty-two years and yet,
you would have no idea.
Because all I do is write about nothing.
All I do is contradict myself.
I’m a mess.