sometimes late at night i hear tires on wet pavement
the sodden squeaking of rubber against asphalt
like two clumsy lovers
and it makes me feel alone
the sound of crying seems so vacant as it bounces across walls, but the laughter feels like raw ash between eyelids. it singes my lashes and burns canyons into a flooded landscape. there is no place like home, except hell,
and i am cringing away- from it, from comfort, from myself.
“you miss me when i’ve gone, but sleep with pills when i’m here.” well, i’m here. i’m here and the bottles are nearly emptied, the feelings not yet subdued.“sorry for becoming a daughter you never wanted to have to love.”