HOME IS WHERE THE BUGS ARE ! ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ

can i overflow

my old best friend's dad looked like a bargain bin stephen king,
and he made jars for a living.

he gave me one and ever since i've kept it beside my bed, whispering my secrets and building them up inside.
and it's a bit of a pandora's box because if you open it up, I think my whole being is gone. if you open it up, I think I lose a bit of my troubles and set them free in the world.

it's kind of like rain in january when all you want is snow. so you could dance in the mud and pretend it's snow but people would stare, I think that's why im falling apart in the spectacular way that I am.

I drive past a u-haul warehouse every day on my way home from school, and hundreds on lonely crane arms reach up into the sky for the sun and the stars and for whatever lies beyond.

i'm waiting for that, for when I can finally reach a weary arm up to god and beg for a handful of the cosmos.

im looking for that sky on fire to lead me home.