thewomanwhowasmyhome your words, a plush carpet, hidden tacks deep in the curls of nylon fiber, waiting until a sleepless night for me, to gouge my heel and let my blood across the dark living room. your smile, it feels like the sunlight streaming through the windows and there’s no air conditioning but the windows don’t have screens and palmetto bugs and salamanders are lurking so i am being slowly smothered as i see your grin grow distorted and your teeth morph into knives. your hugs, the sheets that i crash into. a void of restless sleep within them. not soft, but itchy wool. uncomfortably warm, why am i never comfortable with you? these sheets are the most sheet like sheet to ever be. these are not sheets to hold me, not to love me. your gaze, makes my stomach flutter, a quiet disdain for all that i am leaking through your pupils. Sinking, my gut reminds me of how starved i am. There is nothing in the cupboard of my desires, but fear. I am hungry for a love long expired. She never feeds me anymore. I am malnourished from her withering looks. The woman who was my home, no longer.
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