i'm coming home

for anyone who didn't get this on facebook, i wrote a new poem!

this one's called:

I'm Coming Home

Oh, hello, old house
I'm coming home again

Stepping out of my car
and onto the curb
brings back floods of memories
that rush like a river down my
throat and leave
an uncomfortable lake to
roll around in my stomach

Everything's exactly as I left it.

The door's broken, still,
I had bent the know from the inside,
trying so hard to break it off.

To either escape or trap myself forever
I'm not sure.

The hallway's as dark as
ever, extending well beyond the
light or my eyes can imagine
It's amazing how the hallway
seems untouched,
it still smells of paint
and cheap alcohol,
yet there's not an inch of
dust anywhere,
as if people have never
really stopped walking down the
hallway.

I open the first door on my right,
and the smell clubs in the head.
A mix of blood, sweat, tears and
paint. Paint most of all
So much paint I can't breathe
So much paint not an inch of the
white walls are visible. Canvases
hang from the ceiling in solid colors
No real images anywhere.

Most are tattered and wrinkled
Only the black and most dark survive

There's a depth there I can't even
comprehend.

Next room I go to is a furnace.
So hot and so loud
I can't decide whether to plug
my ears or wipe
my sweat stained brow.
In the midst of the fire
lies a wooden bench
How it hasn't
burned by now I guess
I'll never know.
I can remember this is the
room I stayed in
the most,
completely covering my body
in sweat,
beating my hands on the bench
until I had splinters in my
fingernails,
burning hair from every part of
my body
trying so desperately to spark myself
into something else.

Because maybe if I was different
I could leave this house.

Another door leads to
a room completely made of
glass. Hard, unbreakable glass
that overlooks a busy
city street.
I'd come here to watch people
react with one another in ways
I couldn't handle.
I'd just look at them
and they'd look back, concern
striking their face, knocking on
the glass and just looking. Nothing.

I would kiss the glass in front of them.
It was all I could give them.

The final room is where I set
my bag down. One where I
can relax. Not because I'm
happy, but maybe because I'm
comfortable. It's the room that
smells most like me. The room
my eyes are permanently adjusted to.
I know this room in the most
intimate way.
In it lies a bed with a wool blanket.
In front of the bed a white screen.
Projecting the movies I
wrote and starred in. The ones
about heartbreak. The one's I've
re-lived so many times I refuse to
beleive in anything else.

I close my eyes here
letting the smells and sights
and darkness enfold me like a blanket.
Behind me the movie screams two
lines:

"Is this the way it ends?
With my hands holding your broken heart?"