I once asked Google to show me the self who is truly loving life.
It asked me to search again.
I once loved a hole through my favorite sweater.
It didn’t prepare me for the hole I would love through a man.
I once asked the trees to grant me an answer to: “Am I Whole?”
They could not, having never needed to ask themselves the same.
I once waited for my life to begin.
The lights shut out all around me, the door locked, everyone went home.
“Am I Home?” I ask the cities I sleep in.
Their lights blink blankly, their traffic a new kind of silence.
“Am I Home?” I ask the men I sleep next to.
They breathe heavy, dream through it, and I ignore my twisted gut churning: “No.”