full and empty

I wrote them all down
my fears and failures
my self-flagellating insults
my leveling criticisms that, let's be honest,
reduce me to a pulp.

I added on panic
and shame and isolation.

I threw in my lack of faith and vision
the paralyzing sensation that I was not only alone
but that no one else was.

The paper, muddied with abuse,
looked like the mark of a crazy person
and I suppose, for all intents and purposes,
I had gone a little crazy.

Still, I made myself a good dinner
and ate it calmly as I wrote, and afterwards
I felt full and empty at the same time.
Cleansed, but brimming.