my sadness is a vagabond that cannot make up its mind. sometimes, it wanders to the farthest places and brings back a box of strange heartaches. other times, it begs to be felt, and i let it in — like an estranged lover coming back in sultry, august nights only to leave in the morning. and i become everything but me. sometimes, i can hear its breath, lingering in the sunless lines of poetry. other times, it kisses my most familiar scars. i yield, hoping for my skin to stop bruising so **** easily where gentle kisses fall. my sadness is a vagabond and i am yet to draw the blinds. i am yet to shut my windows and lock the door. one day, these ribs won't be prison bars — they will be for keeping out unwelcome, uncertain wanderers. they will be on my side of the battle.

and i will wake up, safe, without an estranged lover lingering on the doorstep — without its scent lingering on my skin.

i will wake up — me. me. me. grounded. not a tabernacle to be carried off. not a skin for sorrows to wear.