Leaving home is no longer exiting the address attached to my paperwork.
The walls that contain my childhood are a time capsule full of spoiled memories.
The bedroom where I prayed away scary monsters is now a skeleton of myself with transplanted hobby attempts by my mother.
The rearranging of furniture, the shifting of pictures, the emptiness of space and claustrophobic piles of clutter in the closets push me outside.
Outside, where the trees grew with me and kept me shaded while my imagination transformed the branches into jungles or utopian planets ruled by female playmobile.
My mother laments at the clutter and space we hoard while my father would be happy as long as his tools are untouched.
Leaving home is like entering into a comma, and every time I wake up I've lost another memory.

we get little moments together.
though we have never had a time where it's just me and you,
i always think about the tiny sparks and colossal impact;
and wonder if you write about them too.

one day I will make you dinner.
the next, I will choose TV shows
               over spending time with you;
then maybe next week
               I'll write you a love song
and after I'll forget
               to return your call.
some days I'll read poetry to your voicemail --
some days I'll be an hour late for drinks.

I am a sometimes-girl.
      the kind with too many pairs of shoes
               who forgets to water her plants and
               who will love you
               several days a week -- but
               maybe not the others.
and you need to know that I know that you
deserve
something better.

I will keep you waiting;
I will frustrate you, and
I promise, I'm not worth the trouble.

still, I hope you'll stick around.