Teetering on the fine line between

A funeral and a wedding,

Everyone who ever felt like home to me

Stood in my house

As we devoured through every box left in it.

A mentally stimulating contradiction

Of everything and everyone I love,

Being somehow of use and also useless.

Kissing my knuckles and simmering

Into each crack and crevice of my life,

I couldn’t help but to stop and stare—

Their limbs ached sorting through

Every single part of me, indulging in

Everything I ever could be and have ever been.

Home is a forever evolving concept,

And it is a feeling, never a place.

There are almost 3 decades of me

Piled up in a dumpster, and I can’t help

But feel so loved.

Home is where the heart is,

And the ribcage is a box

Far too precious and prolific

To ever be picked through,

And especially not stored away.