I'll Never Call You Home, Baby.
I'll Never Call You Home, Baby. home stories
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Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
I've been told to cut out the middleman,
because the messenger is already dead.
(To the girl who wanted me to call her "Home,"
but didn't know the meaning behind the word.)
[Animation on page thirteen is by Emmyc on Tumblr]

I'll Never Call You Home, Baby.

by Caroline Prank

You told me once that ethyl smelled like reality,

and maybe I should've intervened. Not stood there quietly, waiting for the walls to consume me, while you lead another broken shard between your sheets.

I used to hear you,

But those bruises and broken noses only scratch the surface. And we both know there's years of abuse in these birthday candles. So stop saying goodbye and listen to me.

We all know what people say about farewell;

it's really just empty within itself. Stop Don't take a step closer,

I don't want to hear you whispering

under your laced breath, the little standardized phrases you use to fill beds.

“If love is blind, honey, you're a dark room.”

You're burning “love you”'s on my lips.

Eyes whispering welcome, even while your lips scream sin. You're powered by rebellion, and I was never really in.

Growing up with two different perceptions of love,

it's still hard to accept any dictionary definition. But, I already hear the neighborhood's whispers. Don't talk; just listen. Maybe if I do this, she'll learn a little bit of commitment.

I'm up an hour early the next day,

and my room's lost its glow, so has the world given up on me? I see the accusations that lie in pursed lips, and time twists like a stripper in a bar. Please, I only want to drink.

But these nights,

I do not sleep fearing the voices under my bed, but the ones within my head. At least, you taught me to fear something a little more permanent.

A friend told me,

you disappeared into the back of someone's van, and my filter wasn't fast enough to stop myself from thinking, “Oh, thank god. Its over, isn't it?”

I don't want the burden of your name on my conscious,

so yes, let love leave and learn to follow it.

But, nothing changed.

I still can't touch another beating heart, because of what you've done to me.

If love started as a problem,

brewed between screaming parents and cheating friends, you were the one, who stuck it in between my lips. And poisoned it.

I can't even write for it,

because all I hear is your soft, powdered voice, whispering little nothings into my air, like dust.

“When a sun is all we share just come and be my atmosphere"

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