Home is were the heart is.
Veins and arteries interlocked
Stronger than the hands you used to make me think twice.
Looking every direction
Never quite understanding why
And never questioning the use of the word
love.
Because questions were just another way of getting your deigning breath into my system;
Recognizing the sound as if it was a morning’s alarm.
As if every failed attempt of pronouncing our name deafened you to anything that sounded like a cry for help.
So I’d run and hide.
You didn’t quite like that.
You didn’t like the idea of your words being so loosely held,
So you shortened the chain
and I shortened my veins.
Every time.
I ended up with an empty muscle and a pathetic travesty of emotion.
So I’d run.
I didn’t hide, I drank and drank
The rain hoping to forget the hand that fed me
Because it pushed me from dancing.
I ran in the street that I never learned my lessons in because I was taught by the book
The book you never wrote
But followed so vaguely until you decided to add a page
from the bark our tree,
To write accommodations for the mistakes you refuse to have made.
So you slice a sheer and process your final say.
But your words are not strong enough to resist gravity-
You never recalled the impossible regeneration of deadweight.
But it’s okay now!
I didn’t die at my own hand and I
SUPPOSE
Letting go is a natural cause
So I can still make it to heaven-
I am a fallen branch.
And darling,
You cannot recycle broken limbs.
There is no hospital for a broken home.
This home is too perfect to be broken,
So I understand your frustration when my skin didn’t cut the way you intended me to.
Maybe it’s because of the countless rejections of becoming closer to you.
When I was afraid at night.
When I drove myself to be near you
But was shoved in the positioning
Of our portraits.
Maybe it’s because when I touch the grass you fear me growing too fast. Is that why you’re allergic to weeds?
Perhaps all of your spoken success I will never feel in your memory.
When my life(or lack thereof) started to weigh you down you grafted me back onto to your hip claiming me to be a loved one
And marking me number 4 in your 99 cent pen.
A chain gang of-
Love.
Family.
The sweat from your grip is enough to wipe off the labels you give me.
I can slip from your eyes- your ball and chain eyes-
And the world I offer this disregarded muscle
Will never be as dangerous to you,
As the home metastasizing to it.
Inkling 