donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, empty,

slippery butter and

holes,

 

I climb through donut holes,

as a small mole in woe at

indentations into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

oil tackling

flour, butter and all.

Now, the final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: tender and appealing

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make it

sickeningly sweet?

and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious,

delightful?

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

now it’s just one whole,

nothing.

maybe my own hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will also be gone?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

hole.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

this donut and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough, sugar ball has

a purpose,

and a hero’s journey.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that maybe I can too?

I must be able to?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid sugar:

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

Eating this donut:

destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, an intruder

and I’m a marauder without a map.

If my hole were to cave in would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

It’s okay, I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

one,

two,

three,

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

 

I know no other material,

usable material to fill this tunnel.

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3 thoughts on “donut hole

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