Tag: home

dust constantly collected
on the windowsills 
and in the corners 
of the room, but
i liked that because 
i always knew where to find it. 


a firm
mattress was my muse, 
pulling words like taffy


pulling poetry that left
a sweetness on my tongue


and a purpose almost as
defined,
as solid, as sturdy
as the walls.


this was home home until


i grew too big and my limbs
tore down the frame.


all that remains:
my body, full of splinters 
and a yearning


for the way
the sleepy sun shone
through the windows.

Coventry // a.s.m 

i can feel
the drums in my pulse. 
i miss the warmth
of the sun while it rains,
and the smell of
Armani cologne and sweat.
the way we’d all slide in
the back of the car with
no seat belts,
the leather sticking
to the backs of my thighs. the heat.
pulling mulberries off of
the trees in the yard and making
tracks on the tile
when we’d come in for dinner.
our four beds pushed together.
whispering in darkness.
throwing cheese
to the street dogs and cats.
being free to be 
a child. getting lost. wandering
too far.

հայաստան: Armenia // a.s.m

i don’t know your face anymore,
it’s just a place i’m looking for.
some chemical’s breaking down the glue
that’s been binding me to you.
i thought love watched over this house,
but you’re boarding up the windows now,
and an empty house is not a home.

watch it all dissolve around you,
burning little holes in love.
drag your heart up to the starting line–
each heart a paper kite blown by the breeze,
love won’t rest till it brings you to your knees.

but the wind wouldn’t blow me home–
i’ve missed my turn, strayed too far
from the road.
i lost my heart, i buried it
too deep.

nothing comes easy to a cage like heart // a.s.m

Home

You are the
Kermit the Frog doll
I used to carry
under my arm.
The one
I’d never go anywhere without–
the one that smells like
my grandmother’s perfume and blooming
Michigan summers.

You are
my favorite pair of shoes–
the ones
that have my footprints
molded into the soles, and
creases where they bend at
the toes.

You are
the way my pillowcase smells
a week after I wash it–
a cocktail of
dryer sheets and shampoo.

You are hot tea,
a warm blanket, and
a book
while watching the
snow fall.

You are binge watching
my favorite episodes of
Friends in sweatpants
after a long day
at work.

You are every poem
in every piece of my heart,
the home button
on my GPS.