Never from the beginning.
No one cares where I was born or raised.
Not until they are hooked on some part of me; my looks, my humor, the way I dance or laugh at the most serious moments like an illness or tragic accident.
I'm losing my mind but don't worry it's just in little pieces at a time.
It started with loss
Fending away haters.
Then got amplified with death; a childhood boyfriend, a childhood friend, a new friend, a cousin, a brother, a dog, a cat.
Always with heart break; lovers challenging and trying my patience, trying my fidelity, trying my love.
And then bit by bit the pot turned into wine turned into cocaine turned into pills turned into martinis.
And now do I have your interest in where I was born and where I was raised?
But that doesn't matter.
It's too late.
The clouds are covering the late afternoon sun and I'm sure I left something on the stove but the wine tastes so good and my feet are stuffed under a pillow and I'm not hungry anymore.
Nowhere to be found
I can't cry.
The tears are stuck outside in the tall evergreen that only a crazy boy can climb and he's not here.
He's on the other side of the world where day is night and he sleeps while I wait.
Old habits are knocking around in my heart.
Hang ups flying off the fan and spattering around the room.
The doors are wide open but still I can't run.
There is hope at the top of the stairs but I can't climb.
Of myself most of all.
I've touched every blade of grass every piece of clothing every door knob every towel every hair on my dogs head to uncover myself.
So intimate are my wounds
So intimate I can't expose them.
And that's where I was born
And where I was raised
And where I will die.