The body is an interesting place to live in,
and mine has not always held the comfort of a home.
There is a strain on the right side of the foundation,
that aches and groans and threatens to crumble,
and yet still it stands, holding the weight of everything else,
but growing tired of its weakened parts.
There is an ocean somewhere inside of me,
and I can feel its waves hit my edges,
without rhythm, without warning, without remorse.
I am thankful that from a young age I learned to love the water.
Maybe there is a leaky faucet, in the upstairs attic,
a screw that came loose and I am still trying to figure out how to plug it
but for now I’ll leave a bucket underneath
to catch what the sink cannot hold,
just so that this home does not flood.
There are walls that have been broken down over time,
walls that have made room for more and more light to seep in,
but I have built a few too.
And there are souvenirs from everything that has happened over the years,
they are scattered throughout this home,
scars in the form of chipped paint and cracks in floor boards,
but also picture frames and new paint and new windows.
This home is not what it was seven years ago,
four years ago, one year ago.
Some days I wish I had not left the door open so often,
as I clean up the mud from the footprints on the floor,
so I change the lock and hand out new keys
but I become more careful with age, as to who receives these.
Somedays it feels like this home is more maintenance than comfort,
as though the upkeep takes more time than the living.
But I will change the locks as many times as I have to,
mop up the ocean while the right side shakes beneath the pressure,
keep a bucket beneath the faucet when I cannot figure out
where the leak has been coming from.
The body is an interesting place to live in,
and despite its need for repairs, I will grow to love this home.

—

Your body is a road map
and I got lost somewhere
between the dip in your
shoulder where my head
would rest perfectly and
the freckle on your back
that I would drag my
fingers across carefully.

Your body is a road map
and there is traffic just 
below your heart from 
an accident that happened 
8 months ago and I am
trying to find my way back
moving over the wreckage
that I had once made
until my fingers find their 
way back to yours.