When I ask my weekly therapist if I break into my childhood home
is it still considered a crime since I used to live there,
she passes me the kleenex box.
And when my brother visited the emergency room
in eleventh grade because he wanted to kill himself, the secretary
said sign this form. I am drawn to people
who like to be alone, who feel lonely in a crowd of thousands,
who twist their napkins in their hands when on a dinner date
because they’d rather be at home.
There’s something about the way the body of a shy
boy curves like a Sunday, like the comma at the end of a page
where the reader has to pause,
like holding someone against a sink and listening to the sound
they make when you tell them not to breathe.
I could listen to that sound for hours.
And ever year I try to burn the one that came before,
but no amount of gasoline or matches can ever sear it off
the calendar page.
Some days I’d like to peel myself out of this skin
like the strips of Elmer’s glue we tore off our palms in elementary
school after letting it set for a minimum of five minutes.
But sadly, breaking and entering is still a crime
no matter the circumstances, and wanting to kill yourself
is no more of an emergency than a broken bone,
and no one can slip out of their body like a dress
being removed for a lover,
because a body is just a home,
and like all homes,
it’s pretty damn hard to get rid of.