There is a hole on my table

There is a hole on my table.
There is the blackest hole on my table.
It is where the sturdiness of lumber
proves to be mere facade.
There is a black hole on my table,
a space once occupied with
the most important things
(like papers, keys, and rings) —
there now resides a wound.
Its edges are sharpest wafers
that could lacerate my fingers
(if i positioned my arms
at angles that are ‘just right’
[just right: you know,
like how society might like]).
This gaping hole
is where my left hand disappears
when it wanders in its anxiety; the hole
swallows belief in my self when I feel
the (frequent) need to be confident.
There is a hole in my table—
no, there is
a formless, abstract, meaningless shape,
on my table :: there is a symbol
on my table, a symbol
of self-sufficiency, or lack of it,
of self-discipline, or lack of it,
of caring too much (that I wrote a poem for it),
or not caring at all (that it still exists).
There is a hole on my table, and I made it
when the table met my fists. I made it
with excessive force. I made it
because I’m mad at the table. I made it.
There is a hole in me — no,
there is a symbol in me, there is
a space once occupied with
the most important things
(like papers, keys, and rings) —
there now resides a wound.
There is a hole on my table.
There is the blackest hole on my table.
I made it.

— A. P.

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