Hollow

The bruises between my legs sore themselves.
I'd like to think that they are talking to the stars,
figuring out when our sun will burst
and kill us all. But they hold as a mark
from bony hips repeatedly pressing against them.

The red streaks across my back intrigue me.
They feel like they are trying to paint a picture
for the world to see
underneath my skin. I question if they
are important enough to stay.

I will close my eyes tonight and dream of the real world
and how it looks nothing like mine.