Moths and fuss

I was born to feed anger and fear,
breeding holy moths between the open spaces
that connect my ribs.
Not having a goal or a sturdy dream,
I let my silent monsters scream
their angst through grumbling flights
of wicked pacts.
Your shoulder is warm and it makes
me forget all those nights I spent
cradling faded roses
in the pale moonlight.
Nobody...nobody...nobody knows
how it really feels to have no name
to call your own,your own private
cluster of letters.
I'd write down my loves and sins,
but I'd rather be haunted
than blamed...
Oh,when will this trial call a witness
of the heart?When will my inquisition
come to a halt?
When will I be able to deliver
my skeleton as "home"?Gosh...
I died in the name of dust and bones,
collecting marked stones with bruises
I could  never return.