my heart was a street so dark, a small country road where drunk drivers drive too fast, where metal bodies collide with small animals. winter was an unbearable season. on the good days the ice was thick and the cars went right off the road, out of control ; on the worst of them the snow was so heavy to even see and people preferred to stay indoors.
you were my nowhere-to-go-but-home, and i found myself hiding in the cracks in the apartments of heroin addicts, listening in on how to find new veins once they'd collapsed. under bug-eaten bedspreads i found myself in very comfortable coffins, much like the ones that existed within their minds, their bodies or graves waiting to be filled.
when you think of my track record with love it is quite unsurprising that i should fall in love with the addict. some might say that it's because i don't think much of myself, as though i was somehow below them in my mind. but i think i have always loved those with secrets, because only someone with a secret knows where to find the parts of you without fingerprints, how to touch the untouched, gently, as though your inner self was the most delicate, desperate flower. a self that's easy to kill. what a surprising discovery, that if you wanted to, you could die within the hour. your mother keeps her pills behind the bathroom mirror. the last train passes at nine-thirty. the knife block is on the kitchen counter.
and life carries on, meaninglessly there. i just want to find where home is.