Caricamento in corso...

This poem is a building

November wraps her hands around my lungs like a parachute, unwilling to open. The sound of your fingertips against my skin– so close to me, but I can not touch them.
The color of your silence fills my throat with brick walls, words we have tried so hard to let each other’s mouths feel but they keep getting stuck between our teeth and,
I am sorry. I am sorry that my body does not work anymore. I know that I promised you I would come home one day,
But home has become a place I do not recognize. Maybe if we call it something else, call it something different, call me something different, call me something other than daughter, maybe, I could make you love me again.
This poem is a firecracker spitting it’s guts against your white stained bed sheets, this poem is a gash behind my ears that I have tried to keep open wide enough so that maybe I could hear you, when you do not answer me, this poem....is a building. This poem is a building I have buried my bones under, it is a building that I have fixed only to ruin again, my body is a building I have fixed– only, to ruin again.

Say my name like you mean it. Say my name like you can not keep it from spilling out the backs of your teeth without ringing your mouth dry, I have tried, to come back home so many times. I have tried, to find giving up behind the strength that my body insisted on, I have tried to give up.
I have tried to scrape your name out of my bones, but you sit there, and you sit there. Begging me to take you back home.

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