to travel between worlds

this world isn't mine.

i've got one hand buried in the ground,

holding the roots of the peach tree

planted so many times over in the

backyard of my parents' house.

one foot here, in an apartment

that no one visits unless you're

staying the weekend, arms full

of new-plastic-smelling board games.

an ear in a newlywed's white house;

half my face a few states over on

the phone screen of a girl i grew up with.

a few fingers still in a cabin in the woods

somewhere.

a crescent of my soul across the country,

in the closed eyes of a forest i've never been.

teeth, scattered at the doorsteps of

relatives i remember and forget.

one foot firmly placed in the side of a lake,

ankles enjoying the waves,

skin soaking in the sun.

my heart, firmly tied to a rusting door hinge.

to the trunk of a beat-up car.

to the feeling of being and unbeing.

committed to getting torn apart.

all mine, and not a shred of it belongs to me.

9.27.24