I have a nasty habit
of dropping pieces of
myself on other peoples
doorsteps, leaving
frigernails and stray
hair inside their
post box. I always
give a part of my skin
to strangers on the
street because maybe
someone else can love
it more than me.
And I rely on broken
teeth and bottomless pits
to decide how whole
I really am.

So I set up camp
inside their
bones because I've
never been one to
know what home feels
like and I thought
I could manifest inside
sink holes for hearts
but it only made me
fade to black.

I wanted
to make peace with
the torment in my
head, but then the
flood came and sailed
away the only bed
I could ever sleep in.
And I wanted to hold
onto the idea of
making bonfires in
the small confines of
their back but people
don't take kindly to
being shelter for a
storm that never dies.
I come with lightening
strikes and hurricanes
in a three pocket
backpack and knock
on the doors of those
whose mother never
held their hair back
when they cried.

People are tempory,
in every meaning
of the word. They crack
and they crumble
just like me but the
wreckage of them
always seems to land
right beside my
shacking knees and
I sift through the
rubble because I've never
been one to let go
of things too easily.
I burn alongside the
people that I love
and I let them spit
out their sparks
upon my neck and
I rub their ash into
my flesh and I scream
when I get burnt
because I forget that
they were burning
when we met *and I was
bound to get a little
****** in the end.