This poem was written to immerse someone in the experience of depression. Turns out this is moreso what it's like to have BPD. Go figure. Trigger warning.
There is an emptiness in the pit of my stomach and it is dripping.
I can see only what's in front of me and hear only the loud and racing thoughts that assail me, like the voice of the man who beats you to death in the street when you're homeless and his immutable longing to snuff out the life from someone, anyone, has reached an apotheosis in the form of tightly clenched fists and tensed feet beating against your impending corpse, your writhing body, the body of a man who is worthless; and so, he goes to town beating the living hell out of you and screaming, even calling attention to the approaching climax of some mysterious emptiness leaving a formerly animated, soulless body. He does this because he knows no one is going to stop him. He is drunk and he is angry and he is going to drain the life from some poor stranger because he wants to see the face of a man who knows he is going to die, a man who is going to die imminently soon, a man who has lost all control over his destiny, a man forced to meet Fate in the form of a drunken, embittered demon.
And so the demon manifests through murder, and he howls as he beats you. He beats you sourly with the wild furor of a spotted hyena that has not eaten in days and has stumbled across an injured and abandoned calf. He howls with a soft gruffness that make his sonorous, mystic echolalia bitter, pained sobs as much as they are Satanic curses, cruel taunts, primal war cries, or any other sorts of intentional bellow. He beats you until the cows come home and he beats you with closed fists and with open ones and with kicks and jabs and swinging arms and stomping feet. He beats you as he yells hateful, angry slurs in an alien and solipsistic language.
He beats you with his voice and the mere tone of his nonsensical words cut as fiercely as the broken glass that litters your open hearse or the hard, metallic tips of his dress shoes. His voice reverberates through the vacant streets and the smell of piss and vomit brings tears to your eyes as you suddenly feel your stomach and its contents leaking into the street.
You don't know where or why or even who but you are dying and you can feel the thoughts flowing out of you with the last bit of blood as your mind fades away into oblivion. You don't even have the time to feel the courtesy of the cold, hard dread all Godless men are owed when faced with unknowable certainty.
And yet, your stomach and the emptiness continue to drip. And drip. And drip.
I am the man. I am the bleeding shell. I am the contents of my stomach, and I am dripping.