My belly button ain’t no panic button. My entrails aren’t chemtrails. My spine ain’t constructed from the Legos of swine.
And even though my karma sometimes seems like it just got its driver’s permit, it knows well enough not to run you off the road.
All these parts of me: maybe when they yearn to be inside out, it’s more like they want you to be closer to me.
Oh, the many untraveled boulevards of us across which we seek safe passage.
Even if home is where you fake it until you make it your own,
I’ll always leave a welcome mat for you at the door of my breath.