ever since i was a little girl my mother would drag me to neighbor's houses
and aunt's apartments.
where sown into pillows and hung on walls were the words,
"home is where the heart is."
i've never felt as home anywhere so much as
my bed and my bed has never felt so much like a coffin
as it has the past few years.
does that say something about me?
i've never felt at home
inside my head and my head
has never dragged me down like lead
so much as it has the past few years.
what does that ******* say about me?
there are a thousand ways to die;
a knife to the heart,
a house burning down.
a head burning itself
to the ******* ground.
every splinter in my heart feels like a knife
slamming its way through my sanity
and the flames are licking at the tips
of my fingers
like a lover's tongue.