Your body was my home, my bones were planted beneath your skin like sunflowers that felt the sun for the first time. You breathed planets into my spine and for the first time, I tasted laughter. Sitting in the back of my throat,
Burning beneath my tongue,
Sleeping, in the gaps between my teeth; there you were.
Your body was my home, your mouth tasted like honey and my hips always reminded me of an ocean every time your hands gripped them, letting all the purple that sits inside your veins seep into the bones that always sat too low on my body, my bones, bleeding out poetry.
There were worlds sleeping in every space between my fingers, universe’s, that would burn every time you touched me.
You left your fingerprints all over my body, when boys ask where they came from I tell them they are my home.
My home, that left planets inside my chest. My home, that left planets that don’t spin anymore. My home, that left me with a gaping hole in my throat where they used to sleep;
My home that left me with–
The home that left me.