All I want is a place
     I’m tired of being crammed into narrow spaces with sharp corners and jagged edges      trying to fit where I know I don’t belong

If I try and remember, I can still feel—
     not the sharp aching piercing pain, but fragility—
     like some intrinsic structural weakness
I feel like I’m trying to dance on a floor made out of parchment paper      I’m deathly afraid of falling through

Is it because I’ve got nothing better to do?
     —nothing more interesting to ponder?
     or is there something fateful in these turn of events?
          I still think I should’ve turned right
               at Albuquerque or Rancho Cucumonga
What could’ve been? I can’t help but wonder
  it’s all I’ve got to hold onto
     but I ought to know better than to try and live with the ghosts of the past