The worst part of being
left and half undone
is finding all of the
loose ends and
where was I
torn
(Me, ball of yarn
you, so many knitting
needles shoved in
one scar or another
and each time, indeed,
The inclination to pick up
where you left off pulled me
toward the worst and most
terrifying possibilities, a
nerve hanging by the thinnest
vein but I still yanked at it,
you see I would never
leave a job unfinished
even if the yanking of
the yarn undoes everything
one or the other of us
meant to finish
I've put too many hours
into this, gathering or
scattering, assembling
or finally tearing myself
to shreds
I've lost the meaning
or at the very least
shouldn't building
feel better than
destroying?
O what a hateful trench!
this could be, was for awhile
this life of mine then scattered
like each season, I expect nothing
more and less would be a blessing
I have lost the talent of
renewing myself and
never had the patience
to watch it come upon me
naturally so you see
The twelve year old
left half undone is still
waiting for me
Home. a word, not meant
for  that twig of a girl
Sometimes in a quiet rage
I imagine arriving home
disassembled as I am
(again, again, and again)
with my mouth made mute
by the layers of my dread
and so much packing tape-
I laugh to imagine a chorus
of folks intoning the word
Home and in all it's meaning

In the end I want to be
the worst most horrific
delivery ever landing on
your porch, no return address
because I have returned
with no intention of leaving
and even when I tell you to
handle me with care I doubt
you will recognize me
I've spent my life fancying
myself to be the kind of person
who would not ****** someone
like you but here's the problem
*******- no matter how well
I put myself together I always
end up back here, the ugly
part of you