What do I do if I've used up all the open vacancies?

There are no more people to use as homes to hide in.

I have to go back into myself, my rooms, my hallways.

Where everything has gathered so much dust.

All curtains have stilled waiting for me to stir them.

I don't remember which doors lead where.

Or if they lead anywhere.

Are they now just ajar, vast caverns into the silence of space?

How much time as passed?

I've lost track.

I have to go back.

But I can't.

I'll sit outside of myself on the steps.

Try not to turn my eyes at the casting shadow

But everything is so,

so,

empty.

And I'm too scared to make it through the doorway.

Sandpaper Skin
By Grace Espinoza

Sand paper hands
Stitched up by stories
Whispered through pores

Devoured by your rough palms
Swallowing soft flesh
You cling
Looming

Eyes widened
Expanded by curiosities
Familiar fingertips
A naivety so tangible
Pulses behind flesh  

Wrapped in
Anchored arms
Sends light rushing
Flooding
Into my darkest depths

Molded my soft skin
Hardened it
Thickened shell

Sandpaper hands
Stitched up by stories
Weaved into my brain

Extension Cords
By Grace Espinoza

Extension cords
Kiss our spines—
Once outlined and defined
By cotton soft lips—
Dangling, extended, from slender necks

Familiar buzz of tandem heartbeats
Replaced by rumbling monitors
Deafened by the constant hum
Of clicking fingertips

I cannot reach through glass
To trace that smile
Conform it to the memory
Of greedy palms

Cannot wrap my arms
Around you
To set your worries to sail

Connected
Strings of words said
But never meant
Blinded by the bright glow
Monitors casting shadows
On what could have been