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.