For Naught

Things are starting to seem to matter again. Slowly, the feeling is coming back into my fingers, flopping around without rhyme. Even though this worry - for naught - this outfit I'd been saving - for naught - confessions to the world, and to myself, and to fate - for naught - I remain intolerably here. You just can't get rid of me.

Try everything, I beg. Poison my water or blood. Stab me straight through and leave me screaming. Indent your bullet in my thigh. Blow up my world, my street, my city. I plead with you to starve me of sufficiency. To leave me as cold as winter's showers, or as hot as the fires of that burning afterthought that some call hell. It's my Groundhog Day, and I'll always come back. Don't count me out. I'm not leaving in so many words.