Home Comes and Goes

Must I use my mouth to admit I am lost.

In this city of flesh, these buildings of bone. A product of perspective. Earthquakes, and sinewy bridges span above oceans of blood.

Tell me what is real with words I have already said but with renewed meaning.

Head planted in my hands and roses sprout. Thorns planting my insides a catacomb of roots and vessels. All the while pressing lies and whispering sugar-laced deceit, these roses committed to my skull.

An attempt is made at coaxing them to stay.

A pleading that the high chair I reside in by the window will provide them enough sunlight when I am gone.

Bleated crying as I move to the floor head still planted insufferably attached to my hands, figurative roses a cheap scapegoat to hiding.

One in this city. But not one at all. Fantasies of abuse. Entirely insensitive to reason, overpowering they are for a while, I get through it stronger always.

Or I could just be hungry, walking over to the kitchen and rummaging through the cabinets for something to eat. Reopening cabinets and fridge over and over as if contents will change. Hands gracing the contents and sifting around like a hidden treasure will reveal itself after some searching. Finally, my hand grasps the plastic bottle in the corner cabinet I pretended I wasn't in the kitchen getting in the first place.

Its funny, where would you pick a spot to die? could you? Burning and bubbling on my teeth, burrowing holes in my esophagus, and dumping into my stomach like a salanic bath bomb.

It never takes long for my vision to blacken and her smile to brighten it back up.

''your name?''

"Dabria. Yours?"

"Rosier."

I've been writing again.