How many times must I 

call out to the void 

to realize my echo will

be the only answer?

 

I keep reaching out with 

open arms and open veins,

but all I get is tired and drained.

A still beating heart feebly pumping

in an empty carcass.

 

so I disassemble myself to

be made into something new.  

I tear myself apart, piece

by piece, to be lain across

the assembly line -

 

hoping to be frankensteined

Into someone, -

whose void would call back.