they say that home is where the heart is
so i guess my home is gone
i tend to call that homeless
but maybe my heart's just gone

in school
we learned about hydraulic fracturing
when they would send pressurized chemicals into the earth
until the earth began to “frack”

well that’s what i felt like
when your words rained down upon me so hard
my brain began to crack

what should i be for halloween?

myself: all i need is to lift up my sleeve and show the scars and my costume shall be complete

“How come you always stay in your room so much?” a little girl once asked me.
“Because I have anxiety, darling”
“Where is your anxiety?”
I pointed to my head. She nodded.
But that wasn’t entirely true.

I should’ve pointed
to my hands,
full of earthquakes and after shakes;
my arm,
blade rakes and skin breaks;
my smile,
nothing short of fake;
my whole body,
just one big ache.

Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.

You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.

You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.

Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.

the things that come out of my mouth
the things that go through my head
and the things that come from the ink of this pen
may not always or perhaps ever be the same