a song plays
it taps my shoulder
with it's slow sadness
my spine curls like old wallpaper
in a house I knew

with eyes closed
it rings like a phone
like hearing your own name
I answer the call
memories flood

and it smells like dust
like a photo album
you only recognize
and do not remember

the books you hold
your mother's voice
as you tun the worn pages
like she's still reading to you

it feels like
sidewalk chalk
and walking home

home
the word is a hot stove
I try not to touch anymore
it just burns

I never learn
I open the door
evoking melancholy
just to see blurry faces
to hear my younger self
laugh about things
like funny faces
and late bedtimes

the smoke alarms ring out
the song ends
but the burn lingers
and stings throughout the day

I'm sitting on wet tile
water dripping from my hair
in darkness
under warm water

the pressure beats my skin
like the rain
it echoes in my hollow head
like drums do
and my mind is numb

empty
like a house we moved out of
like a home I never understood

like a stove left on
burning it down
every time I listen to that song

I would draw
but my hands shake
I would speak
but my throat is sore
I would get up
but then I’d have to let go
of the comfort of my room
the only think I can do
is write
and so I write
about anything
about everything
about washing machines
and my spin cycle mind
empty bottles that look full
and the disappointment they cause
puppets forcably dancing on strings
and how I’m not the one moving myself
about flowers picked and left to die
and the temporary, forgettable beauty
I would speak
but I can’t find the right words
I would

but I can't