As a small child, the straps
that held me in my carseat
were the worst torture
imaginable. I remember straining
against them with all the might
in my tiny body, knowing
it was hopeless. Your silences
have become the car-seat-straps
of my life now. From the outside
they waited, beckoning in sheer
inevitability, and from the inside
I can see no way out
without ripping you in two.

i.     I love how it's such a given
       I'll do anything for my friends that they
       think it includes letting them walk
       all over me and ******* ripping me
       apart.

ii.    I can't miss the irony in the fact
       that all the music I listen to when I'm hurt
       is music I was introduced to
       by people who ultimately
       hurt me.

iii.  Sometimes I cross the street with my eyes closed
       in order to pretend fate is a thing and
       I have no choice in whether or not
       today is the day I explode
       in beautiful horror.

iv.   It's times like these I miss my cats.
       Because cats don't judge you
       for crying, they just lick
       the shiny marks on your face
       until you stop.

Sometimes I think
that everyone I trust
just lets me lean against them
so they're in a better position to kick my legs out from under me.
That everyone whom I let learn my weaknesses
will not learn to shield them
as I originally intended, but study
in order to know where to plunge the knife.
Standing under your own power
is so hard
and learning to trust someone
harder
and, in my case, has such a higher chance
of hurting.
I am the man with the broken leg, I
am the man with the traitorous mind, I
am the man who will tear himself down
in absence of someone to do it for him.
Even knowing that, I am standing
on my own feet now. Even knowing
all my own weaknesses, which buttons
to press, I know that trusting
myself, precarious though it is,
is less dangerous
than trusting you.

When I was younger, the world
was my playground. Any place,
if I believed hard enough, or even
if it just looked comfortable and I
was in the right mood, became my own.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold
me, would automatically case out
the joint, scan any room, looking
for places to fit my tiny four
fivesixyearold body, comfortably.

Today I was sitting in a museum, where
benches lined in carpet lined
the walls, and a quiet voice
I had forgotten once lived inside
whispered "you could sleep here."

When I was younger, I still believed
in the power of family, of love, I
still believed we were all
alright, these things happened in every
house, and my house was the best for me.

Little fouryearold, fiveyearold, sixyearold me, little
voices whispering "you could be safe
here," little nooks and crannies to hide
your fourfivesixyearold body, I wonder
were you, even then, looking for a home?