I never had the chance
to hear 'I miss you'
uttered from your lips
with any hint
of you sincerely being serious

I can feel the freedom
tearing me
limb from limb
because my core burns out
but my ribs cave in
and every notch on my bedpost
doesn't feel like victory
or anything, really
because the last time I felt
was the last time I said
I miss you
and I won't put myself
through righteous hell
(again)

even though here I stand
pulling excuses from thin air
like,
you forgot your pen,
you still have my sweater,
I still have your virginity,
tucked into that drawer
that I won't open
because it smells like home
and
we both know that would drive me
right over the edge

yet you also know so well
that if I was presented with 'home'
I wouldn't be able to tell
the difference.
So when I say home,
I'm inferring
that it tasted like your absence
and passive aggression
and sheets tangled with sweat
no longer from passion
but from the constant
cage of dreaming
taking a weightless axe
to throats
to home
to anyone
who dares to say
that I've moved on
because

I've moved seventeen times
and never once
have I felt like
I did with your face in my hair
and my chin on your chest
like home.
and I've avoided it so long
and now it's or I am gone
and either way
your eyes shift past my face
past my naked sincerity
past my begging for
'I miss you's
that won't come home.