A HOME IS SCRUBBED CLEAN
hands red raw, chlorine
flawless pure pristine
unsightly things better left unseen
flawless pure pristine
unsightly things better left unseen
like slaves to an all-governing routine
A HOME IS A FLOOD
in my dreams i chop up wood by the greenhouse again and pick out clovers and glass shards from underneath my feet
in the house that always smelled of wine droplets at the bottom of a glass
in the house that always smelled of wine droplets at the bottom of a glass
floodwaters rush in
two thousand and two
wooden toys all drowned
two thousand and two
wooden toys all drowned
A HOME IS TRANSIENT
the first time you truly realize the impermanence of a home it's already too late. the gears are already set in motion and no amount of raindancing and offering clay sacrifices can stop the ties severing
at last, you wind like a snake around its balcony railings before the tide rips you away
at last, you wind like a snake around its balcony railings before the tide rips you away
A HOME IS SHAMEFUL
a home is a glass door always broken into, leaving a trail of blood down to the elevator shaft (that you christen with blood of your own kin years later)
dread and shame seeping into plywood and drywall, lingering like smoke that you just can't clean out. humiliation that burns the same way drowning in ice cold water does
at least there's seagulls and mean girls to keep you company