Perfectly Empty

I am perfectly empty when I am in your arms.
Weightless and daring; undaunted and soaring.
Empty of imperfections, anger and jealousy.
I am not a mess. I am together and perfect, in your arms.

I am perfectly empty headed in the mirror.
My thoughts give no comfort. They spill out like yolk
from a broken egg. I am too empty to hold them.
I am a disaster in a pink dress. An empty headed dunce.

I am frothing at the mouth, perfectly angry, writhing
in my hatred for self and others. I try to empty these
emotions into the toilet, to flush them all away.
I am only numb now, blocking myself from feeling.

I am perfectly empty, a vase to be filled with what you will.
I have no soul, no mind, no spirit. I am a lifeless doll,
a mannequin, a toy. I am so perfect for your reasons,
for your games, for your loves and your hates.

I am perfectly empty when I am in your arms.
Its just my imagination that makes me believe I could
ever be weightless or perfect or happy. I am not a mess.
Just a doll, happy to be whatever you manipulate me into being.