I don’t think I know what home feels like yet

Maybe home is a lone, weathered bench
Tucked beneath a canopy of trees in Central Park
It might be in the enticing neon of Tokyo
Its electric fingers beckoning me to get lost in them
I see it in my unruly bedroom
In the familiar scent interlaced in the fabric of my sheets

But how would I know, right?

Maybe home is burying my head in the crook of your arm
Letting the steady rhythm of your breathing lull me to sleep
It might be when you laugh at my jokes
Your nose crinkling up, your head thrown back
I see it in the way the very earth holds its breath
Just to listen to you speak

But how would I know, right?

I see a couple
They look happy
Together

Smiling,
Holding hands,
Fingers entwined

They stare
At each other
With such longing,
Such emotion,
And such warmth

Happiness
Like theirs
Is what I wish for,
But all I have
Is a bottle

we are not butterflies
wings splayed flat across tables
like specimens. we are
not fluttering in the wind
like figurines. we are
life

and love, and hope and
faith floating eternally
in the distance, just
and beneath our grasp. past
the skies we fly still,
splayed across blue
like specimens. poised
to spring to life
like figurines. we

are beautiful. we
are strong. we
are feeble, and plastered,
and nailed half-folded
to surfaces that scrape against
our cheeks but still
we fly. still

we are not butterflies.

Third time's the charm
They always say
If the third time
Was the time
That you'd get hurt
The most

I am a completely different person than I was seven years ago.
Physically, yes, because my cells have been dying
and renewing so much that
everything is gone and I am new.

Mitosis took care of that in the way that
everyone is a new collection of cells
every seven years.

But we're still the same collection of memories.

I am also different mentally.

I am not a simple eight year old anymore,
but what is a simple eight year old?

I want to be a stem cell,
blank and waiting for instructions.

Either I want to make my own decisions
and take control of my own life
or I can recognize that I don't know what I'm doing
and any control given to me will be lost.

I want to stay blank, ready to be programmed
and have a job
and a purpose.

But maybe I don't want to be a cell
and I want to be the collection.
Maybe I'll find my purpose.
Maybe I'll find my job.

I want these seven years to pass so I can be this
new human.
Maybe they will know what to do.

Am I the stem cell, hidden in the nasal cavity, or am I the human?
Am I really that different from my simple eight year old self?
Am I really different at all?

You are subpar
How I wish she could see that
You probably know it yourself

You are the grimy ****
On the soles of my boots
That I scrape off on the curb

You are the lesser human
And I am the pinnacle of greatness
I hope you know that

You are the bottom of the food chain
And I am on the top
I will drink your blood

She doesn't deserve you
She deserves better than that
She deserves me

From Marlboros, and thinkin horribles,
Each time I think of you is another cigarette gone from my pack.

I start my pack full, I test the weight, loving the feel of a full pack in my hand,
But with every thought, they start to slip through my fingers like sand, and find their way home on my lips, where my tears just fall off and drip.

I started with 20, doing so far so good.
Wait whats that? you called?? there goes my mood.

A thought of you, a image plus two and then Im done with a few.
(17)

I choke on my fears, while I clench my hair
I called you my dear, and now im done with a pair.
(15)

Anxiety is something which I so not lack,
Giving my breath to this dwindling pack.
(13)

You feed my addiction being the flame,
my heart burns black, while it bears your name.
(10)

I sit and ponder on these thoughts I wish to behave,
Two more ignites, to feed the darkness in which I crave.
(8)

My pack is now dwindling low,
As I struggle to maintain a steady air flow.
How else can you sleep, when you've been hit with such a harsh blow.
(6)

I have clipped my wings,
after i have fallen oh so low,
in search of my name in your voice, but it is another mans love in which you sing.
This cigerette is now the only thing that glows.
(3)

(Braxton) I remember from where I came and god its a shame,
I just wish the addiction never screamed your name

Empty. Like my heart, the hollow pack crumples in my hands, wishing to be filled.
But the self destructive cycle repeats again, and again. .
And I begin my pack full, yet again testing the weight..