two empty houses and a moltov cocktail

i found you in the places that reek of cigarettes, meth, and sadness, with empty bottles on the floor in every room. 

i sat with you for awhile and then brought you home, cleaned you up. i scrubbed the dirt off your face and kissed away your tears and scars, but you never did let me wash your jeans. you wore my clothes; they fit you better anyway. i loved to watch you eat, to know you were finally content.

i wanted to watch you relearn how to smile, and build a life out west with me, and for a little while, you did too.

but you fell out of new habits, slipped into old ones, and soon my life started smelling like cigarettes, tasting like tears, and there were bottles strewn across the floor.

i dont think it's your fault.

you've been in that house so long it holds onto you. you shattered like the windows when i tried to love you and your foundation cracked more every time i moved. 

my own house was falling apart too, in the "paint peeling" and broken tiles way. but you can't fix rotting beams with rotting wood, you can't fix leaky pipes with duct tape, and you can't yell your way into better love. joy will never come out of bloodied wrists, and understanding will never sting my cheek as you throw it across the room.