Feb 16

Home is Where the Heart Is


My heart makes its home in a body that rejects it.
My heart is a vital organ;
It’s only mission is to keep this body living,
To circulate the blood
That pricks roses in these cheeks,
That keeps these fingertips from turning icy,
That plumps these ruby lips.
And my heart is hated by the body it nourishes.
This body retches in disgust
Each time it feels my heart beat.
It spits,
How dare you feed off my flesh?
As if my heart has not spent each waking moment,
toiling for the body it has been assigned,
For the body it loves,
For the body that refuses to love it back.

This body seethes through dripping teeth,
Fine.
If you refuse to vacate,
We’ll cage you,
We’ll work you harder,
We’ll run you faster and longer,
We’ll starve you until you’re surviving
On false promises and sideways glances
And your crooked rythmn will echo
In our ears like the pant of a wounded animal,
Like the last sputters of something dying,
Like a stopped valve just before it bursts.


Home is where the heart is.
Home is where your neighbors leak insults behind closed doors.
Home is where invisible hands bear down on the nozzels of spray paint cans,
Crafting targets on your back
And slurs on your front door.
Home is where your best is never enough,
Where your fingertips only ever just brush the bar before it’s raised.
Home is where walls with eyes follow you down every street,
Where creases on faces tighten as you walk by,
Where there is nobody to believe you when you need it,
And when you finally scream and pound at the front door
They demand you settle down and ask nicely
So they can deny you with a smile.

Home is where the heart grows tired.
Home is where the heart grows weak
And lonely
And doubtful
That this is home after all.
Home is where the heart skips a beat
And listens to the body gasp,
And waits for the blame to fall.