There is no fire I could follow that would warm.
No house that could ever be a home.
I’m gentle yet ravenous,
poison in a pond,
vines trailing a sewage drain.
My body is a cage made of ribs, blood, and sand for skin.
My eyes are not windows to my soul,
but stained electrical sockets that fill but not fix.
Flowers do not grow beneath my fingertips.
They’re smothered like mouths beneath pillows,
extinguished and laid to rest with valerian.
Nothing grows if I linger beside it
for I am smoke and I stunt myself
the way I’ve been brought up to do.