Having to get out of bed
brings me to my knees–
but only metaphorically,
because physically,
I have not left
my bed in days.
You consumed me
like a parasite
grazing upon its host.
I am the empty vessel
for which the ghost
of your soul resides.
I wither in self-pity
and drown in
a grief I did not
know was possible.
I am hollow,
carved out with curettes,
sutured, and sent home,
but devoid of ever
feeling home again.
Kariana Writing 
Hmm sounds familiar