there are angry fragments of words

and damaged pieces of your 

recoiled speeches littering

my living room.

i am now,

twisted at odd angles,

pigeon toed and crooked

from trying not to trip

over these sentences 

on the floor.

they burned my hands

when i tried to

pick them up.

i am careful

not to touch them

anymore so i won't 

fall to ashes like

everything else in the house.

i am all ears and ankles

when it comes to your lips;

tired ears and broken ankles.

i wait for the sound of

that old door, listening 

for the rusted hinges that

use to sing me to sleep

because they meant 

that you had come home and

even though now

they mean something different,

the floppy metal, the

sharp edge where i cut

my finger, they rattle

against the pillars, the knob

screams under the pressure 

of your calloused palm and

i wonder if you've come to

clean up your mess

and make me straight again.