I wake every morning
with an orange-shaped hole
in my ribcage.
A small void.
The grandchild of a black hole.
I eat bowl after bowl of
my mother’s famous– infamous–
rib-sticking oatmeal
but nothing fills the abyss,
this hole in my chest
and it will consume you and everything
else that gets near it.
Please stand back.
I’ve ordered a warning sign– in orange
but it hasn’t arrived yet.