I writhed against my own beginning.

I demanded the world stop,

and witness every betrayal

but my own.

My emotion brimmed,

seeping, then investing

into anything that wasn’t mine.

Wasn’t I selfless?

I lauded my humility,

fueled by empty intention and pride,

and for each instance which knew no bounds,

I left myself

Self-Less.

The day finally came,

when I sat down to my feast.

My resentments were tightly locked away with the china—

polished only for show.

Here I sagged into my hollow, completely baffled.

My table and chairs

were empty.