Your heart is a home
that I could never call my own.
And the abuse-
comes from myself, alone.
How come I’m so quick to curl up into strangers’ arms?
My own father’s arms-
remain empty,
and open to give me so much…
My heart is a foreign home
an ache that seems strange to call my own.
The havoc wreaked-
comes from myself, alone.
I feed the broken, the dysfunctional, the bored
with fragments of myself…
I’m not the meal, just the table scraps.
Allow your carnal instincts to devour me whole…
Strangers call me Baby and beautiful
Don’t they know I’m anything but?
I placed a cheap price on my heart,
my home (my body)
Here I am in the dark,
or on the cold tile floor,
or under the sheets
And it feels like Hell,
running round and round again,
racing around and around and back again.
My heart is a broken home.
…but I could always call it my own.
And the tumult-
comes from myself, alone.
