I am the product of drunken sex,
of parents that never knew love
and a childhood laced with pain.
Never a place to call home,
my parent’s marriage quickly broken.
Memories are all that remain.
Forward moving, I build from the remains
and find validation in the act of sex,
never realizing that I am broken
and searching for a real love,
a body to hold and a place that is home.
Not facing, but hiding the pain.
The cycle repeated, the pleasure becoming pain
in such rapid succession, until no one remained.
Sitting alone in the apartment I called home,
bed still unmade and reeking of sex.
I realized I had no one to love,
the chain was still unbroken.
That moment hit me, my mind was broken,
but the impact felt good, this pain
because it freed an ache for love.
For something that will still remain
after the chase and the fun and the sex.
This pain made me see I could have a home.
A place to belong, is what a home
meant to me, not a building broken
of spirit or a place to just have sex.
I needed a space free of pain,
where new memories are made, the old don’t remain.
I needed a symbol of our love.
Somethings are fragile, especially love.
As strong as it may seem, it is like a home
and can come crashing down until rubble remains
to mark the spot of what once was unbroken
and now simply reflects the pain,
absent the act of sex.
To love for nothing more than sex,
leaves us broken and in pain.
The remains alone cannot build a home.