My home is a set of skin and bones.
Trust me when I say “it’s seen better days.”
Further, further they say!
This set wakes up slowly, the same way it falls into unconsciousness.
This set wakes up in a small room as the sun peers through those floral curtains.
Forcing, forcing my eyelids open.
And for that moment, escape would save me from all of the alone trapped inside my bones.
Escape would save me from all of the pain of my shattered home.
Don’t tell me that pain is less than that of a pulled tooth or broken bone.
I just desperately want someone to make music with my ribs,
Someone to act as the summer-lakeside wind on my skin and on my scalp,
Someone who longs for shared nostalgia just as much as me,
Someone to pull those floral curtains shut so I can get a full night’s sleep.
It has been said that the beauty of things is that they change.
It has been said that the only constant is change.
But I don’t want that to be the case when it comes to your mind,
And I can’t help but find it anything but beautiful when your brain strays from the path that’s leading you to the home we’ve built in my bones.
Other times I wish for the change those speak of.
I wish for the waves of transition to take me far, far away from my current state.
Begging that this rising and falling of forward motion would give me the fearlessness of the child that I never got to be.
Begging it would bring back to life all the words, all of the words I’ve wanted to say to you and to them that lay dead and buried 6 feet deep on my teeth.
Sometimes I wish those words were me.
Dead and Buried.
Because being dead would make me pale enough to feel a burning on my skin… feel something.
Because being dead would allow my mind to break the ties that bind.
Because being dead would at least give me a grave, a home.
Because being buried would be better that being transparent to those who are supposed to see you in technicolor.
Because being buried would be better than being backhanded by the choices of a father who is not a dad.
Because being buried would be better than finding home within the marrow of your own bones.
God, the only things I even feel anymore is my feet smacking the pavement of my brain as I run from the monsters of the past
And the blood sliding off my fingertips coming from the hangnails I picked at for hours because I had so much on my mind.
I know I can’t be the only one who feels this way.
I can’t be the only one who fills the void of the heart by picking the scabs of the skin.
I can’t be the only one with no one to pretend not to commiserate with.
I can’t be the only one unwilling to dive into their own reflection cast over a warm sea.
I can’t be the only one saying there ain’t a home out there for me.