i don’t think home… has ever been a house to me. it’s gentle, and fleeting; brief moments of reality as twelve months bleed together. it’s raindrops on my cheeks, black leather jacket. wolf 359 on the walk home.

it’s flannel shirts and morning coffee. long showers; sitcoms and found family. it finds me at 1am, writing like the world’s gonna end. it shuts down the computer, and it tucks me into bed. plays lullabies for hours on the ukulele.

they’re drawn-out, and strange, and a bit lonely. and sometimes, they scare me. but they’re kinda beautiful, too.

it’s this body. its walls strong, and true. it’s the bomb shelter i’ve built in my chest for when there’s no one left to turn to. it’s the honeycomb breeze, the crunch of icicles on my sharp, serrated teeth.

and i hate it sometimes. of course i do. curse its name; make the kitchen ceiling bleed vermillion; deliver the killing blow. oh my darling, i know, i know, i know…

but every time, it forgives me. it waits patiently by the doorway; holds out a hand, and begs me to stay for just a little while longer. so… i do.

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