The Thirteenth Year Cicada

Drafts from Death of the Abstract Artist

I am a cavity of broken things.

My arms are made of silicone putty,

My legs are made of lines with jagged edges.

I am the thirteenth year cicada;

I am desperately rubbing hollow parts together,

hoping for anything but an echo.

Echoes are symptoms of loneliness and aloneness,

which are not the same thing,

yet so often confused.

In crowded rooms, there is no echo, only answers

from living, breathing people who hear the question

and holler back.

Nothing echoes in a full heart.

But my heart sometimes empties itself of its

contents,

like dumping out a purse,

and my heartbeat reverberates off my lungs,

shaking my ribcage,

bringing me to my knees.

I snap off into many small pieces

that are still me but are not my property.

They do not belong inside me anymore.