You started being,
little lost star.
You started being,
inside of me,
in my very flesh,
in my own scars.
What happened when the thunder broke?
What happened after midnight?
I didn't sense it,
the knock,
and I blame myself,
I blame myself,
it never seems enough.
Because it is not.
Something died that day,
something beautiful and tiny.
So tiny I couldn't acknowledge it.
So tiny I couldn't even imagine.
Something died that day,
something deep and real.
Something so mine it scares me.
Something so mine I am homeless.
The womb is a sick tree,
put out the fire,
cut the thread.
Come, whoever you are,
and break my bones until I bleed my poems.
The black vultures are eating the forgotten reminders.
The pain is real.
The touch is wounded.
I am homeless.
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