The Missing Part of Me

I rise from my bed,

I float to the door.

My hands are numb and do not flinch

As I wrap my fingers around the brass knob

And force more strength than necessary

To twist the handle and pull it open.

At the top of the stairs I stare

At the hard wood floor below me

I descend down the steps which usually feel like eggshells

But today, there are shards of glass

Scattered, sneaking their way into my skin

Not a drop of blood stains the hard oak.

I do not carry weight anymore

A hollow body solemnly drifting through a house

That can no longer be called a home

It does not deserve to be called a home

Home home home

What is home?

Home is not my deadbeat father sweeping my sadness under the carpet

Home is not my mother abandoning my disintegrating body between these four walls

It is not the cage my dog whines himself to sleep in every night

It is not the place I first broke myself

And tore the skin from my very own arms

Trying to find peace of mind.

                    

I'm almost home the moment your eyes meet mine

The surge of power when our hearts collide

And we breathe so deep

Competing for the air

Quickly escaping from our lungs.

I am far too late

You never will return

To the mess we used to be

I return home every night in my dreams

You are the missing part of me.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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