Home is the child growing a lot of hair.
The rebel with tattooed arms, defiant in love and hurt.
The child stifling cries while growing thorns at the backyard.
Warsan Shire calls it the mouth of a shark.
It’s a friend growing cold with years.
And the taunting time mocking your waist pain.
The unending sermons that open up weakly stitched wounds.
Willing you to heal while waving a glistening blade.
Home is the fading picture in your hands.
Willing you to remember and making you forget.
It is a familiar tune that comes and goes.
It is an old lover with bold questions.
“why are you back?”
“I am sorry, did I make promises?”
It is the enraged mother mocking your new found religion.
The absence of god and chastity.
“go, don’t come back here! Go”
Home is the absolute stranger that stumbles on your path.
“do you know where I am?”
“I think I have lost my way.”
This is dedicated to people whose homes are in ruins- people whose homes have turned to a place of war and strife. We pray for peace. It hurts everywhere.