I feel like I’m car sick.
I have a feeling of an illness so vague
that I can’t even pinpoint its spot.
I’m not full of it
in the sense that it’s dense and weighs heavy on me.
I’m full of it
like a see through container packed with air,
so dense that nothing else can fit in it.
I’m a phantom of a person
so full of this need for perfection
that I’m empty,
a shell of a person
concaved in like the exterior of a car after a crash.