Beset

Pleased to the core
The disease of the whores in our homes
Our homes revolving doors
Stability resides on the floor
But I slither on the ceiling
Afraid of feeling anything other than high
My mind is a fucked apart dead thing unless I’m having fun
My feel-good adage rolls off our tongues
With the weight of an anvil that falls like envelopes
Postmarked for now
Our destination is the ground
Without sound they fall in pendulum motion
To rest in silence

Where is home?
I lost it
I made it look like an accident
How was I supposed to stay?
It was supposed to be my place
But I filled it with my guilt
There was too much to fit in my purse
So I packed it in every crevice
Every prom dress
Every “feel better”
Every love letter
Then spun around
And walked out
My existence, my experience
Dripping behind me
One of us is dying
Maybe both
Rendered by choice
Ruptured by ignorance
Raped by truth
Bleeding love that pools in bills on the carpet
Essence lost to substance
“I can’t live to know”
“I can’t feel that anymore”
I need a drink with my friends
Achieve my cherubim balance
Held up by slanted bookends
My path prescribed
All I need is a glass of water so that I may take my contentedness
And slip into dreams
Before I turn back to God or home
And be forced to salvage my own wreckage
Why should I?
Someday someone will go back there.