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Not enough

Sleeping, aching, tugging the skin off my back, breath filled with thorns and hurricane ribcages I am sorry, my arms weren’t strong enough to hold onto you. Two hands, not enough, ten fingers, not enough, daughter, not enough, I love you, not enough, I will never stop trying, to be enough for you. Praying, praying to god if there is one to help the Lightning inside the sky that is my chest finally, feel like home again– ever since you left these walls haven’t felt like home. Skin, skin and bones, skin and hair, skin and teeth, I don’t feel so naked when my clothes are on your floor. Maybe I am seeking a place where this skin doesn’t feel so heavy, a place that can hold me when your mouth feels like fire, when your words burn my hands raw, a place to keep me safe when I beg you, to keep talking. I found your body in the hallway, August held down my wrists till I had no more fight left in me. I found your body in the hallway and cried until my mother lifted your shirt from the floor, to show me there was nothing beneath it. You had left months ago, my bones just hadn’t let you go just yet. We used to speak a language no one else understood. You told me you were leaving and I did not know how to answer you, so I guess our new language became silence. Silence when I call you and you do not pick up the phone. Silence that sits on the bottom of the staircase waiting for you to come home, silence that covers the backs of my teeth like braces, Braces, they promised it would only hurt a little. These people they have less blood than you, these people they have bigger hands, whiter smiles. These people they promised to feel like home– but they never did do.

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