I am out of poetry. It’s days like this when I wonder, honestly now, when can I go home? I’ve been on this trip for so long, and I need the comfort of my deep couch cushions and the table covered in yesterdays plates. I try so hard not to remember the way the sun lit up the wooden floors, recently covered in cat hair, or how warm a spring day like this would feel sitting in my bed with no reason to move. The trees were so full and a deep, fleshy green. How do you mourn a home? On the train last night, I stared out the windows and tried to spot to her, my home, now so full of someone else. I want it all back, that I may feel rooted and singular again. What candied path did I follow as a child that lead me here, now, in unfamiliar sheets and the constant lie of “comfort”. The food I bake and make doesn’t smell right here. Bread is lackluster in its promise and my body too soft.
I am knee deep in the sucking sand of my past; so knowable and a deep rose color. If I wasn’t happy, then at least I had a kitchen and glorious full windows in every room. Here, everything is unfamiliar to me. The sun can barely penetrate. It is all gifted, every thread a straw on the mounting pile of un-payable debt I owe. None of it earned, none of it proud. The walls are even unwelcoming- what of my “own” can I hang up, without the help of someone else. I know now the pictures from my past won’t work. They are all unrecognizable. I don’t have room for people any more, not here. I let them in, but like an over-full corset, something else cracks and bursts out of place. Surely we all know that at the bottom of hatred is the dissatisfaction of incorrect math. This room does not add up for me, and the longer I sit here, the further into an erroneous equation I fall.
Oh, if I had a full table right now. With six or eight or ten of you sitting, ripping into bread I made. I would welcome you, I would feed you, we could be joyous in our companionship and youth. Instead, I sit here, carpet-floored and barren white-walled. Everyone is moving forward, so quickly. I fell so far back, and so hard, I don’t recognize any of you any more. And what I have to offer you now is a person not fully present. Surely you, like me, are exhausted by this grief, and don’t care to be in its presence any more.