they say home is where the heart is,
but they never claimed it had to be beating.
if this town is all there is to living,
then I'm dead,
and these dusty dirt roads
are my sad little gravestones.
there's a harsh winter wind.
but it's the same air I've inhaled
since I first opened my
surgical steel eye to the world.
remember the pale pink dress
I wore to our senior prom?
you held me
under the fuzzy yellow confetti light.
I loved you because you were so gentle,
and when I fell apart,
you were the only person who knew
I could fix myself on my own.
you twirled me like I mattered,
because you knew that one day I would die.
you forgot that you would, too.
you are wrought iron starlight,
my crooked grey dove.
you live in the sidewalk cracks,
moaning my name as I
cautiously step over the gorges.
my mother calls, from time to time.
I've learned to let the phone ring
because her voice is not the one I want to hear.
she's too tepid, unsure.
she's the link strangling me,
pinning me to this dim diner
and that empty car lot.
my hands are so cold
without yours around them.
we hatched great escapes and
hefty plans for freedom,
but we never got farther
than the border of our high school fence.
cool metal cut the throat
of our stifled hope.
yet I sit, restlessly content,
burrowed in TV advertisements
and homespun impatience.
I pass the cemetery every morning
on my way to work,
headstones staring at my neck,
itching to strike bone.
everyone I've ever known will rest there,
screaming beneath witch grass.
I'm gonna die
and no one's gonna know my name.
not even you,
'cause you're dead, too.
I suppose it's just as well:
I'm living in a comfortable hell.