To the one who calls himself home:
You let me live in you like a cloud wrapped in the blanket of the sky, like a child cloaked in the warmth of its mothers arms.
When you left I named you worthless. I named you unloved. I named you empty.
Cup your hands at the base of my throat, the moon will spill out of me tonight.
You told me you loved me like the moon; so I swallowed her whole.
To the one who calls himself blood,
I hear the morning songs being sung outside my windows, but I  do not wake.
I hear the flesh you claim to be your own being stripped from her bones;
she can not bare to live inside a body you could not love.
When you left me, I named you ruin. I named you destruction. I named you abandonment.
You have given me a chest that is filled with a nothing that is everywhere.
I’ll call you by the first name destruction. You have given her fingertips that can not stop scratching at the edges of her skin, looking for a place to climb out of. I will name every crevice, every vein after you, every blood cell, that feels empty, my lightning hands, feel empty. You clothed us in a skin we did not ask to be covered in.
I will name you after every piece of my body I can not touch without feeling your absence. I will call you stranger. I will call you worthless, for leaving me, feeling worthless; I will name every bone in my body after you.
But I will never, call you father.


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Cory Garcia
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