soon.

lxxv.

̶ ̶ lxxv. MY OWN PERSONAL ENEMY.

home alone in a body that i should feel full in. empty walls that have echoes of only agony. carvings in old wood like the scars on my forearm. a tin roof over my head that feels as old as the spine that carries all these burdens. glass plates shattered on the floor, too many pieces to count on my fingers. a sense of missing every time this heart presses itself against these aching ribs.

i feel more homeless in skin that should feel welcoming and warm.

i stayed curled up, chest heavy on a bed with a permanent indent, and i ask when will my body feel like a home.

it's only ever me who says never.