tragedy

"home is where the heart is"

the saying goes:

"home is where the heart is."

but I can't recall where my heart ever was.

it certainly isn't beating against my ribs like it should,

so I retrace my steps, carefully leaping on the stepping stones

that cross the roaring stream, back to my fading youth.

I don't remember much of my childhood;

however, I do know that the 

one story in shambles- where I slept until I was old enough to realize that

I was more afraid of here than the dark-

could never be considered a home-

not with its lack of family photos or

its hazy rooms with squeaky pullout couches or

the faint smells of sweat and whiskey.

so, I take a few steps forward, and find the time I first met you

and gave you pieces of my heart and soul- 

bundled up, wrapped tight, and given away with a pretty pink bow-

where they went into your jean pocket, forgotten like loose change.

no, you were not a home either because,

despite you giving me such hopes,

you never gave me pieces of your heart and soul

for me to hold on to in my jean pocket.

so, where am I left now?

homeless? heartless? soulless?

a wanderer with a gaping hole in her chest?

oh, please, lead me home

for the path to it is lost to my eyes

and I'm starting to ache from

the silence in my chest.