It's Nothing

“It’s summer, why the long sleeves?” “Fashion, it’s nothing.” Don’t let them see. Don’t let them know. “What are those marks?” “The dog scratched me, it’s nothing.” I can’t let them see. I can’t let them know. “Why does your hand itch?” “Insects, it’s nothing.” I won’t let them see. I won’t let them know. “Nothing,” they ask. “Nothing.” Yet why does nothing feel like the biggest something. When nothing is the equivalent of fine, Why does my nothing seem like my only something. My “nothing” consumes me like everything crashing down. All at once. It’s always “nothing.” Until I am another something gone.