I can still touch my gut and feelOn Moving; Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)
the missing parts of me, the ache, the empty
sound of metal against metal and my mother
calling me pretty. Calling in sick. A scraped fist.
And before all of this, there was nothing:
a stranger in airport security,
thinking ‘this is the most anyone has touched me
in years.’ Their worst fears
on a conveyer belt. Their worst fears through an x-ray,
and the businessmen laughing. Before this,
everywhere felt like leaving. Before this
were takeoffs and landings and
suitcase wheels spinning
Now I am calling empty places home
and when I’m alone
I touch the places in my gut where I have outgrown
the coming and the going. Alone, and knowing
that I can never leave again without breaking. Alone.
And I know that the aching has a name
but I’ve forgotten it.
When I left my childhood home for the last time
I didn’t cry. I locked the door,
the sound of metal against metal
hell. Rang the bell
and listened for the echo. When I was young
leaving was so easy, but it gets tiring.
And now there are parts of me left everywhere I have loved
and I am feeling their absence.
My flesh left in piles on a hill in Virginia. Alone.
My bones shattered across the Carolinas.
Alone. Fingers left behind in Tennessee. Alone,
and my mother is calling.
In an airplane, a seatbelt clicks
and someone starts over.
They leave a limb on the tarmac.