“Now i’m the one thinking about running away.
Like maybe packing boxes would give my broken hands
something to do other than grasp the necks
of the cheapest bottles from the bottom shelf.
No place has ever been home for me.
Home has always been my stained bedsheets with tiny holes -
nests of cat fur, too many cracked mugs, and a filthy coffee pot.
Home has sometimes been someone else’s chest’s falls
and my open-mouthed kisses on the hollow of their throat.
Home was walking anywhere with you, holding hands.
Home is now this skin and these bones -
this body, still freckled with ghosts
of the men who’ve touched me.
I carry them - some light as air, wispy as clouds -
but you are the heaviest of them all.
I do not want to take you with me when i go.”