obsessed with the idea of what home is,

they say home is where the heart is,

is that why i’m always on the run?

i was born from nomads—

no matter what,

it’s in my blood,

i can’t stay.

i wish i was a more excitable girl,

not dwelling within the deepest depths of my dark mind,

where the weak and wonderless lay.

i am always wishing to be much more than i am, yet begging to make this heart smaller;

i feel too deep and embrace too lightly, nothing is ever fully in my grasp,

it slips from my hands all too easily and i am left back here again,

wandering and breathless,

i am exhausted of myself,

yet i am bound to this vessel for eternity;

what madness.

i’m not who i once was; dedicated. flirtatious. inspiring. i’ve shrunk myself back down, small enough to disappear. small enough to be forgotten. the rage within me is swelling and i am overwhelming my need to be loved. i feel like a motherless child, begging for mercy, longing to be held. i blame myself for the inadequacy, as if you’re perfect yourself. i’m a blue screen—a void. you’re a green screen—endless possibilities. i guess that’s all we’ll ever be, colours and unfulfilled desires.

beneath the sheer veil of moonlight, countless thoughts flooded my consciousness and fluttered away as quickly as they came. perhaps it wasn’t a strange dream after all and just an evolution of synchronicities aligning within. and if i was then, living in the now, i wouldn’t know any less or anymore than i do in this moment.

i only write for you.

i found your grin within every consonant, your laugh within every vowel.

i cried into those pages, hours of self depreciation hidden behind each period.

“HERE I AM, I CAN LOVE YOU IF YOU LET ME” my pen shouted, did you hear it as you read the sentences out loud?

maybe if i drew picture books you would’ve stayed a bit longer to admire my words.

i created affirmations of love as i crossed my t’s and dotted the i’s.

i wrote to tell you why i came back and you read it as you walked away.

one more poem and i won’t scribble you down in my notebook anymore,

one more poem to remember why i fought so hard to forget you.

i want to go on date nights, live music and going to the theatre. living in the suburbs, driving an suv that takes my children to practice, the kind i can afford the payments for.

i wouldn’t be in line at the grocery store debating if i should put the bread or bananas back, instead i’d come home and toss my keys on the kitchen island and pour a glass of wine—because i could drink a single glass, instead of downing my sorrows in a bottle.

i’d have the gratitude of the man outside the local cafe who feels rich with a handful of change and a couple of cigarettes. instead, i glare with jealousy as i walk to the womens shelter.

i want to go to my parents house during holidays, sit down at the table and enjoy a meal together. admiring them, wishing to find a love like theirs because i was lucky enough to not understand the heartaches of divorce.

my children wouldn’t be pressing ‘1’ to accept their dad’s phone calls, wishing he was a better man. instead, they’d be begging me to tell him to stop tickling them—because he was home to tuck them into bed.

i’d have the instincts of a monarch butterfly who has ability to leave when the seasons no longer support them. instead, i stare in admiration wishing i’d have the same courage.

i want a life with no trauma, a life where the only stress is caused by me forgetting the cherry tomatoes for tomorrows salad. i want quiet and simplicity, not the survival and chaos that i am accustomed to.

to be loved by you felt like silenced, autumn mornings; dew drops slipping from the sharp swords of grass, breathing out dragon fire—i was completely inebriated with nostalgia.

you petrify my bones, i am still when you are around. you are the first piercing newborn breath—debilitating for only a moment, yet needed for eternity. a sweet and simple self sacrifice.

i am routine, you are change. it’s comforting to be me, while loving you was a thrill i longed for. you flip the pages of the calendar and i count down the days—come back home.

the vessel carelessly strays, the heart intricately stays. i am the comfortable shadows in a dark room, i ease you to sleep yet i am gone by the morning—come back, this time i’ll stay.

i have so much to think about

do you stare at your feet

does it hurt to look at the sky

no where to go

no one to be

i have so much to think about

does it get lonely

do you accept your defeat

no where to go

no one to be

i have so much to think about
do you think it counted as goodbye

does it pass the time

no where to go

no one to be

i have so much to think about

does it count as sacrifice

do you believe in a fools paradise

no where to go

no one to be

i have so much to think about

in the garden of eden
i am the forbidden fruit
too ripe, rotten, soft

too bitter to be sweetened
hushed, silenced, mute
scorned at any cost

begged by merciless power
destroyed by tenderness
only to be reborn

bound to sin
obedient
forgiven

the world perished at my taste
rejoicing in eternal epiphanies

how powerful it is to be
woman

i tasted love once;

it left a bitter aftertaste on my tongue.

scorched and tender, my gums bled.

an invisible sore began to grow,

and day after day i picked at it;

it never had the time to heal.

often times i tore it wide open,

allowed any type of parasite to wonder through,

they especially liked the warmth my wounds had to offer.

quietly cushioned between my trauma

and their own misunderstanding,

they found comfort and solitude.