My home is…on my back where it’s always been. I’ve tried to fool myself into believing it’s where I am… in the moment, but it’s not. Maybe it’s not even on my back. Maybe it is in my heart, soul, or eyes…something cliché like that.
When I was a little girl I would go “home” and mom would be gone still. I’d say aloud as I entered the dank house, “Mom, I’m home.” Then plead with her in sobs at her boyfriend’s home over the phone, “Mom, come home tonight…please?” My sister wants to come visit my home. She doesn’t know that I don’t consider my wood-paneled apartment Home.
I Am Home
My loves and desires…
My bones are the beams, my feet the solid foundation, my flesh the walls, my eyes the windows that can see in and out, my head the roof and the protection. I am Home.
I’m done with wishing I had a home. So used to being home-less.
But now I realize my home is me.
When I’m tired I rest inside myself, and when I’m insatiable with boredom and stagnancy, I pack myself up real tight and head out.
I never leave home, it’s comin’ with me.
My ideas the blueprint,
my heart the full spectrum lights,
my lungs the fauna and flora,
my soul…the soft, cozy furniture I lounge upon night after night…

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