ive always thought home was a person
that knew the scarred, veined backs of my long purple hue prone hands,
the faint and spattered freckles on my nose,
the chocolate milk stain of a birthmark on my shin
i thought home was a person
who didn’t know the sighs between my words but who’d learn the breaks
between my silly little jokes as the most intricate tellings of my secret language
a language no one knows but i try so desperately to teach
a person
who speaks the same language, with no prior experience necessary
home
has become the squished embraces of my little sisters
the laughter
bickering
hard shoves
head rubs
shared favorite snacks (that i hide in the depths of our pantry, and sometimes behind my bed)
home
has become the love i have finally learned how to express in the forms of
details
minor occurrences, minuscule moments that create the messy and wool like fabric of my life, littered with frayed edges and loose threads
my home is in a stupid town where i see people from middle school at the nearby walmart, and my not-quite-friends, not-quite-enemies from high school in the tiny, unshoppable mall
The doors of every business are dingy with brown stains and the streets are covered in trash and the missing child signs for a would now be seven year old girl called Dulce Maria Alvarez cover every wooden electrical wire pole in town
she was last scene in an always foggy park near my family neighborhood home walking along a pebbled trail with her mother & smaller brother before quarantine began in 2020
she has been missing for two years. my little sister is now seven
yet i am still looking for a home away from that four walled gray bedroom, where my bed is my greatest confidant, and deepest sarcophagus
holding my dreams, tears, and stray blue hair dye
home is where i can leave my closet door open to the abyssal ghostly portal, and feel only comfort
home
