Home

Some people can recognize
A tree or a front yard
and know
they've made it home

The walk from the car door
To the front porch
Becomes habitual
Instead of intentional
They get lost in the
Contentment of familiarity

But what happens when you
find yourself
So adrift, so off-course
That you've worn a path in the circle you find yourself walking in

What if the place you're looking for,
Your home
Was never really home After all

But rather a false sense of security
Wrapped up
In a pretty pink ribbon
On top of the layers
Of gripping manipulation

How many circles can I walk in
Before I give up looking?
How long before I'm lost for good?

Home for me
Is not the familiar walk
To the front door
Or the yard with overgrown grass
that makes weeds look like bushes

Home is a sea of senses
Blending together in perfect harmony

Home is walking in
And seeing red
Red skillet
Red chair
And my favorite redheads

Home is the smell of
Fancy hand soap
Fresh laundry
Fragrant candles
And farty brussel sprouts

Home is the first sound you hear
A chuckle
A musical
The clearing of a throat
Our favorite tv show

Home
In a nutshell
Is freedom

Freedom to laugh
To cry
Or maybe both at the same time
To yell and to vent
Without the burden of shame
Or regret

So home
You see, is more
Than the tree
Or the porch

Those things could vanish
And leave you stranded

Home is laughter
And friendship
That won't leave you lost

It is safety and belonging
That says
“You are okay”

It is the weight of a burden being Lifted off your shoulders
Home is love

my brain is splatter painting itself
like I am modern art
and you are sitting there
watching me spin
like a thunderstorm of low serotonin

roaring as I fight a war
within myself that you cannot see

wrestling against quiet demons
of anxious insecurities

Blowing a whispering whirlwind
of "but's" and "not enough's"

Destroying all stability
that might have taken root

And I'm kicking and screaming
but it seems my voice is on mute

help me, help me
and please try to see
that deep underneath
my perfected passive smile,
there's a
thunderstorm of low serotonin
warring to take control of me

I am unraveling from
the bandages of my youth
my eyes are
blind in the folds

all of these garments
like graves

I am surrounded,
ground down,
by this marble

the memories are following
flowing over me
like oceans of wind

all the salt has been
picked out of me
like panning for gold

running on and on
as feathers brush my mind
with messages
and I don't know
if this will ever
end

or if
like a fragment,
I will just run on
with no direction
until I abruptly
stop
with no warning

What is a costume?
What masks do we put on
at the beginning of each day,
just to shed as we walk through the door?

Our front doors become the cleansing cloth,
that strips away the deceptive pretense
of our sense of selves
that we create for the outside world to see

these costumes however,
create barriers.

We hesitate to say what intimacy is,
and whether or not we have it

But what is intimacy
when our relationships are built on
a foundation of
convention.

What is intimacy
when we train our entire lives
to play a masterful game of pretend.

unloving begins
with the setting of the sun,
with the falling of the tides.

I realized how accustomed
I had grown to the feeling;
of wind on my skin,
of hailstones falling.

Alphabetized, my many names.
A blurred face
in a hallway of mirrors.

my heart left long before
my body did,
long before my legs
had the strength for escape

unloving begins
with your heart feeling cold.
I thought I should stay a while,
just to be
sure.

when did we become friends?
it happened so gradual I didn’t notice
maybe i had to get my run out first
take a big bite of the ***** world
And choke on it
Maybe that’s what has to happen
With  some stubborn teenagers
If it happens at all

and now
The thought stark and irrevocable
of being here without you
shakes me

beyond love, fear, regret, or anger
into the realm that children go
who want to care for,
and protect their parents
as if they could
and sometimes the lucky ones do

into the realm of making every moment important
laughing  as though laughter wards off death
Each word given
Received like the northern lights

Treasure to bury within
Against the shadowy days
When it will be the only coin I possess
with which to buy peace of mind

my mind through
a garbage disposal
wrung out to dry
on barbed wire

the terrifying thing
is this:
its all in my head
no one else can hear
what's happened,
what's happening

I want to
search for new ways
of forgetting

convincing myself it is all
a creation of my
sick mind

a work of art
from my imagination
a ghost I choose
to believe in

I've halved the hinge on my head again
tripping lightly in this field of peonies

this moonless sky is singing her
lament of the darkness to the heavens

I have found a quilted universe
this should explain my absence
and the abyss in my eyes

This maize maze in autumn
reason lost to the haunted
the ghosts in their houses
that time has once
forgotten and revered,

rotted timber
is so tender when the rains pour in

my mind is a loud place
and my sugar skull is smiling
these colors will forever
remind me of home

As plaster crumbles like cake crumbs

And tornadoes of ash and dirt,
coat her world in a quiet grey

She rises,
brushes the destruction from her knees,

and sings

the familiar feeling burns my throat,
and no matter how hard I
try,
I cannot swallow the sensation

It is stuck there and it
seems like I am choking,
suffocating

I am spiraling downwards into
the darkness.
It envelopes me,
silently laughing at me.

The blackness is
all I know,
and I welcome it with
open arms.
It numbs me.

And I am stuck here
because I cannot explain,
cannot put into words ,
how the inky tendrils that
coil around my mind,
blossom into something
far more dangerous in the
pit of my soul.

I wish I wrote the way I think;
passionately,
obsessively,
with fervent desperation

each line
like a gasp of air

writing to the point of
asphyxiation.
writing myself into a
cold panic

narrative snaking out of
my neurological pathways like
vinery into unremitting
nothing

Bury myself in subtext
- in metaphors and allusions

two way mirrors,
painted black as moonless night,
eyes closed,
lips cracked

And bleeding from these secrets,
that keep aiming to
elude the thoughtless

Mouth forever unlocking
to eat its victims,
to swallow the flesh
and spit out the bones