come home.

my dreams are not quite
helium and light
but they keep me floating
in this house
with the wallpaper peeling in the corners
and the doors with screaming hinges
and the burnt out television keeping watch
from the windowsill.

i guess
it’s a little like the way
i hate my thighs,
the same way i hate words like
"won’t" or "run."

for once, baby, this isn’t all about you.
this is a litle about mememe
and how my body
is a temple,
my bare skin is holy
(wholly yours)
and i’d like nothing more
than for you to worship
one, two, three times a day.

it’s a little like the way
i’ve lost metaphor
like an old friend, we just
drifted
i guess,
‘cuz i always forget to call
and he’s tired of waiting.