I don’t know how to leave this place I call home.
My mouth is twisted into shapes of constellations and on my tongue sits every word you ever said to me, the fire in your voice spread across my neck, burning, my body to the ground,
burning, my hands raw;
yet I don’t know how to stop touching you.
The skin on my fingertips has faded, leaving me with a raw ache where something I lived with my entire life, something that seemed so small, has gone missing–
Everywhere you touched me, feels like fire.
I don’t know how to leave this place I call home
I stood under your breath as the color blue shot words at me like bullets,
cutting through my jugular, spreading through my veins;
“what it used to be”
sits on my chest, suffocating me. “What it used to be”, is spread across my mouth, drowning me.
My soul seemed so empty, lacking a home it never had,
I found God sitting on my bones and I asked him, How can it be, that you can still burn my hands raw, even when I can no longer hold you?
How can it be, that I have lost every particle of you yet I still feel you everywhere inside of me how can it be, that I still find your words in the back of my throat,
yet I never have anything to say.
I guess that maybe the answer is,
You are my hands,
You are my bones,
You are my hips and my knuckles and my veins,
You’re living inside a home that can no longer hold you, you’re living inside of arms that are collapsing towers when you need a stable foundation well, I’m living inside a home, that can no longer hold me, either.