Intangible thing,
a belief in self —
how is it that you cannot hold it,
cannot wield it,
cannot shield yourself with it?
Because it cannot be grasped?
But in the hands of another,
it cuts deeply enough
that you bleed for days,
for weeks —
filled with a dread so ripe
you cannot help but open
to spread its seed far and wide.
The fruit is bitter, poisonous,
and all you allow yourself to eat,
save what you steal from others.
What emptiness lives inside
that you fill it only with what you take,
what you tear down,
what you ruin?
