There are times when the ache to be home rests in the pit of my stomach like something empty and heavy. Maybe the insides of my chest have shattered into tiny shards that sink into my skin and force salt water from my eyes. The reality comes only late at night, wrapped not in your arms, but unfamiliar blankets in an unfamiliar place. I'm trying to learn to call this place home but you were always it for me.

Take the gun from off your back and shoot down the wild birds from the sky
They come easily if you wait
If you wait
When my ankles swell with the storms
You carry me over your shoulder like the corpse of a Canadian goose
I am your prize
You've blown a bullet through my aching bones and I am your prize

By the time I’ve stopped trying to hate you, I’ve started to hate myself. And, it’s certainly not the first time and I’m still hoping that it’s the last, but this hurt, this sadness, this deep ache that tightens itself around my neck, threatens to choke the remaining life out of me and I’m scared my reckless mind just might let it. Because this bitterness is dipping into my blood and it slithers into my soul and I want to scream the sickness out because the crying has stopping working. All of my backup plans are crumbling to dust around me and my memories dance around my head like haunted specters. I’m done. I’m done with this anger and resentment towards people who are too busy to care. Too vain to reach out. They do not deserve my rage when they cannot be bothered to love me if I am not there to remind them I exist. I do exist and I am worthy of being loved. So I refuse to sit here and play the martyr, still waiting for a fictional apology. I’m not sorry. I am finished. The End.