Wanderlust

You force your skin into the cracks of your childhood home
Skin and bone

You life is the well worn story, and anticlimactic ending
That everyone's been dead the whole time and just pretending
To walk and drink and breathe through a scenery that screams
Past a paper thing mid-western set, "I'm empty look, behind me!"

You need motion in your fingers, brushing past a door
You've seen a hundred times, but never gone through before

Your home isn't where you're used to
It's a novelty
Getting lost in subways, or just trying new things

Revolving doors like an airport, a door we're both using to swing back and forth between, a tango dance with confusion. Every person seems to find a rock eventually, to hold onto, to stop moving, or to hide under, most likely. But I can't trust that as legitimate happiness. It seems just like me their motion sickness got sick of this duality between what we want and really need. I want to run away, but I need you to stop me. As much as you weren't stars or my sun, it's pretty likely you knew me better than anyone. Pushing and pulling like tides and wide currents, surviving the bad thoughts to keep ones that weren't around when I held you. You felt like an oval with squarish sides, an armful of noble thoughts held together with hands across your back. Fingers overlapped because I lied about what we lacked. More than anything, I got sick of the me in you and scared of the alternative asserting itself as true. No one is owned but that doesn't mean we're free. It means you have to be anything before you're something

I tried to be living, but ended up sleeping, because then when bad things happen, you choose to stop dreaming. Three in the morning, but the sweat stains are worth it. Dirt in your half full cup is no problem so long as you don't stir it or lure it out with driving by one more time to see how their garden is growing, or if the same thoughts are on their mind. We're all coping somehow, you'll find new ways to make your spine pop. Hitting the limit where your body makes the tears stop. But we don't cry, at least not privately. It's much more productive to take scissors and atrophy part of yourself to be seen as once inhabited by a creature called faith who found your soul and took a stab at it
You spun around the door to find yourself a few years older. A sunburn, a backpack, a white chip on your shoulder. The door spins again and invites you inside, but you'd far sooner kill yourself than give this another try. That's how we live. on the maxims of everything. There's a thousand more doors, each heavy and spinning. Handles waxy, dripping, melting. You write on the glass, "You will try, but can't help me."