She's got hands like home
that open doors
when I'm alone.
Her arms are walls
that hold me close
with memories, sweetness
and all of the most
wonderful things
she has shown.
I swear I was homeless
till her hands like home.

Remember the time you asked
    why we can't just fast forward to the
        house and the wooded state and
                our well-trodden garden?

I understand now.

         And I would.

I should tear my muscles apart each night
stretch them all the way to your house,
so part of me can linger there
and dance around your dreams.

It's a selfish thought.

I have had to **** you dear

Deer in the forest
Woods of my life
It was the
Closest I'd ever been to love
A fleeting glimpse
Shadows about the grey tents
Words caught on a hook
That shouldn't have been spoke
Into the ears that we pierce
On the street below the balcony
Or something that was in the way

I'm tired of losing this battle
The enemy at the gates
Behind me is crying
Because I can't be saved

But,

I'm not afraid of the ghost
The ghost is not afraid of me
I am the ghost that you fear
You are the one
That I must ****, dear

I hate it
The days in between
The milestones
That have been carved
Out of my bones
I hate it

When the shade hits my back
When can we go home?

I'll phone your best friend and
Tell her that I've always loved you
But her image has since disappeared
I lost you, out in the wilderness
The memory is not so clear
Anymore

Why didn't you come back?
Was his flesh enough to fill the hole
In your little life?
The cut across my neck
Bleeds and pours and sings for more
Of the taste of rust (iron blood)
From the knife
I once gave you there

So why don't you just **** me off, dear?
Like a deer in the forest
Hiding in the woods of my lie
The creator Is nauseous
I drank too much last night

Insomnia goes hand in hand with amnesia
What was I talking about?
Again. . .

I could trace the trail of heartbeats from where
yesterday began and be right back where I am,
but something's different
               (this is new and beautiful)

We stamp letters with the tiny feet, cook
chicken parmigiana meat, our timeline
means a lot because you're in it

(Here and now I'm feeling like I'm living deep
inside the house we picked)

I can almost taste it
     and I'm homesick.

I am a series of problems,  you see.

I am that annoying song stuck in your head, the reason you can't get to sleep. I am the creepy girl in some horror movie that you swear you keep seeing around town, and the notification you got a little too late. I'm the embarrassing email you just sent, the one simple word you misspelled on an otherwise perfect paper, I am the stain you didn't know you had on the shirt you got two weeks ago. I am your work that nobody else seems to appreciate, and I am the voice in your head telling you that you are not good enough. I'm the grammar problem spell checks don't pick up on, I am the big piece of cake you promised yourself you wouldn't eat, but ate anyway. I am the ****** you won't pick in public and the moment your favorite cousin opens the birthday present you got her just to be very disappointed at what's inside. I am the thunder your dog is afraid of, the bikini you're too insecure to wear, the frizz of frizzy hair, I am the pair of jeans you had when you were younger that you wish your mom never gave away. I am your lost pair of favorite socks, a cavity, a weight gain.

I am your disaster, aren't I?