Restless and cold, my home;
more like the womb of a demon.
Broken mirrors, and
busted corners, a crawl space
for the cleft and gut wrenching
begging voices that petition
the deficiency in me. The unseen
hands that scratch at my legs,
waiting for me to kneel.
Only the good die young, he said.
You will be trapped here for a very,
very long time.

5 thoughts on “Home

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