…but should your corrugated splines collapse,
what shall shelter me when it rains?

When wreaths come in the form of whirlpools,
when threats to my sanity and safety become real,

shall I fall in your middling, shall I regard
grasslands as bedding, as ceilings might as well be open sky?

I know how you are good at guiding tears.
How long before you shatter? How long

before you admit to drowning, before
the giving-in to siren song, before

my words no longer echo in the caverns you create?
Such cave-ins in my the chambers of my heart

bring only questions. Is this doubt?
Is this fear? Is this longing, or is this the feeling

of unbelonging? The sensation of not-coming-home,
the none-embrace of arms that non-exist…

then, my fingers shall enjoy your every turn, your every twist,
though I risk, in your sharpness, wounds that ache

not only on the surface but deeper, thorough,
building up on every slice and bruise that once before—

Oh, dear, am I nothing but a broken home?

…should your corrugated splines collapse, I must
be there to catch your fall.

— A. P.

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