Raindrops | Poetry

an empty home

it's hard coming back to an empty home.
in a room where no one else's there,
you still are there. loneliness is a word
people who have forgotten themselves use.
for it's beautiful how we are with ourselves
from the beginning to the end.

so tell me why do i claw open
the mouths of my lovers in search
of forevers while they sit idly under my tongue
waiting for me to uncover them?
  
i'm learning how to know myself.
it takes an earthquake of shaky breaths
a tsunami of words threatening to
break open the dam of my throat to strike up a conversation with myself.
it's hard to hear the answers i spent
lifetimes looking for echo back to me.
it's a revelation, like
the archaeologist dug up his backyard and
found everything he was seeking for.
so, i already had the answers.
so, i already had everything i was looking for.
it is bitter to know that i tried searching
things outside which were already in me.
but it feels better that maybe i was never
an unanswered question, that maybe
i am an answer, the only answer i need.

to sleep alone on a bed,
to find the side of my bed cold;
but this time i wrap my arms around myself
my body tells me it's okay,
maybe winter came but maybe spring never left.
it stayed, it stays, it always will. 

maybe, all we need to do is look under the skin
that holds us so taut and look within,
to memorise how every organ is placed,
how every memory is carefully sorted,
how the names of the people we loved
are dotted all throughout our body,
how there is hope in our womb. 

it's okay if you want to sew your skin back.
it's okay if you want to leave your vulnerabilities open to public.
but when you walk back to your empty home,
in a room where nobody else is there,
remember there is still you, there always will be.

Author's note:

I watched a TED talk by Phil Kaye, called 'Poetry in maximum security prison: Phil Kaye at TEDxFoggyBottom'. It was absolutely beautiful. So, I gathered my courage and sat down to write. This time, I didn't think of people, but just this process of healing between myself and my writing. I wrote in broken sentences, barely making sense and I left it like that. Today, I sat down and edited them. This time, it felt so natural. I feel the moment you start writing without caring about punctuation, grammar and criticism, you're letting yourself be truly vulnerable. That's where magic happens.

QOTC: Who's your favourite spoken word poet?
Answer: Phil Kaye, Sarah Kay.