familiar trees
the wood I call home
play on repeat all the things that I know
something rotting
flesh and bone
yet undiscovered
dried up blood on the sidewalk
quicken my pulse
twitch in the lung.

there was a time in my life, not so long ago
where I shuddered at the thought
of accepting rides from strange men

my stubborn pride and hard caution
(along with my mother)
warned me against the dangers of this world

I would have rather sweltered
in the summer sun
than sit shotgun with a stranger

yet in these days of loneliness and repose
I have found any and all reservation lifted
I no longer mind the men of the road
aviators, mustache, gun in the glovebox

whatever unexpected kindness offered
whatever companionship, if just for a moment
I will now gladly take the risk to have.

There is a wrongness in this life that I cannot place.

There is something about the world that I wake up in every day
that makes it feel less and less like home
each time I open my eyes.

Something is missing.
Something is wrong.

As if I was transplanted here against my will
the wrong blood type, the wrong time
the more I try searching for meaning,
there is even less that I can call mine.

My vision blurs
and I beg my heart to let me see beyond.

There is so much more worth bargaining for
than exists here
on this day
in this life.

Sick in the sun,
and searching for the moon

The beacon to call me home.

Sometimes I feel so cute
wearing tall socks and short skirts
that I will send you a picture or two
so that you can see me too.

You used to get so excited to see me -
even just the pictures.
But now, if I'm lucky
I'll get a generic affirmative response
no adorable alliteration, no emoji
the equivalent of a head nod

just short and sweet enough
to rip whatever self esteem I have left
into tiny little pieces

always second guessing.

There is a place in my dreams
Where I meet you for *** and cigarettes

I feel your hands on my hips, tight as ever
You never say a word
And just like the waking world,
I'm not sure if you push into me
Out of love, or out of obligation

A year ago the dreams were more pleasant
And through feeling you, I felt the love
It was so much more than enough

Ten extra minutes in the morning to lay
Awake but asleep, in the silence
In the peace of one another.

And I still love kissing the skin of your chest
And I still brush your hair and call you mine
I still miss you more than the rest
Every single second, of every minute
Every hour, every day of my life.

And in last night's dream, we did little more
Than **** and prime for cancer.

My chest in the morning, full of hurt
Aching for the dreams of days past

Where my lungs
And my heart
Were crystal clear.

I'm 23 now.
and the weight of the world is too much to bear
I want for so much, so little the air is in my lungs
never enough to breathe
nor to give life to this heart once aflame.
again, I will admit, it is withered.
dead and cold.

I'm so tired.
every plan foiled.
every stitch come unravelled,
leaving me open and naked
and easy to ****.
I am the prey -
a victim of my own life.
a victim of my own mind -
my own, selfish heart
forever screaming
forever crying out
dying on the inside.

and the broken home I came from
I built
and and I burnt it down
myself.

now, my love is homeless.

and though I wish
and beg
and pray
I cannot keep the monsters at bay.