what the fuck, more poetry.
I - home is your lips in the moonlight
you will ask me a loaded question
and the answer will send bullets flying.
apologies are no apology
and i am a big girl;
i will nurse my own broken heart.
it's an awful joke
like a kiss given when
everyone around you laughs.
the sun is rising
and you will leave
and the feeling is familiar,
the stinging realization that
i am always alone.
II - home is burnt feet and broken hearts
bare toes on pavement in summer
are nothing in comparison.
skin burns, skin cracks
and skin heals within the week
(though the evidence of the burn is
where it peels, flakes
where it is possible to tell).
you are the lemon juice in my open sore,
you are the careless john to my fragile whore.
burns underneath skin last a lifetime
even when the skin blisters over.
III - home is tears until you fall asleep
books' pages rustle more
when laced with iron and lead that fall from your eyes
because there are no more tears
inside your head.
books' pages rustle more
when covered in daffodils
that you've wrapped in your heartbreak.
books' pages rustle more
when placed upon the nightstand
because iron has turned the daffodils
into a mess of yellow petals and smudged words.