You can't make homes
out of people.
I know this okay.
I ******* know this.
God do I know this.
But tell me why when I look
at you I don't want
anything more than to
live in your arms.

When they were screaming?
and screaming.
and screaming.
they wouldn't
stop screaming...
I was in your arms.
and your back was
what I grasped
as some stupid
"oh ****" bar, so I could
cling onto reality.

When he fell and broke
the glass,
and there were
shards in my fingers
from picking it up.
From trying to clean
up the mess,
and maybe show that my
family is functional.
But he fell on me, and then
tipped over and bumped
you. knocked a few
pictures down
before finally falling
into the bathroom.
When I asked if he was bleeding
he responded about
his pierced *******
and not the glass in
his hand.

We laughed.
Because, what else
can you do in
a situation
like this as you watch
your ******* brother
deteriorate.

Just last night they had
another fight.
It ended with a butchers
knife to his wrist.
2 seconds away from
plunging it into
his artery.
And...
If I hadn't
of screamed
he'd be dead and i'd
probably be cleaning his
blood up off the floor,
and off the walls,
and rinsing
it out of the sink.

I took out the trash
and I didn't come back.
I ran to the library
because that's where you
said you were.
I ran to the only
place where I was
comfortable.
I ran to a home.

And I know you can't
make homes out of people.
But god ******...
you are inexplicable.

I forgot the mutter
of my brother saying "ow"
as his first attempt of
cutting his wrist went
awry, because it
kept echoing in my head.
I just heard your laughter
and felt your hand
on my thigh.
I forgot the tears running
down my face,
and me screaming
"what the ****" and the clatter
of the knife.
I forgot it all
and just felt you.

Any argument
ends with "wanna
**** about it?"
Every panic attack ends
with me in your arms
some how, and you're like
a smell of cats, smoke,
and home.
and I know you can't
make homes out of people.
I've long since learned
my lesson.
But maybe you're a building.
A library,
or a dark musty club
that's always warm.
With the smell of ****.
Maybe you're an open loft.

You can't make homes
out of people.
But whatever it is.
I own you.