Out Into the World

Home is the place I keep the things
I can’t carry on my back.

Home is the place that doesn’t change,
for better or worse, when I leave.

Home is the sounds I no longer hear
through force of habit.

Home is where I wait to return to,
and yet rush to leave.

Home is sleeping alone in a bed
too short for my uncovered feet.

Home is the locks that keep others out
for which I have a key.

Home is the same with the same,
and the same, and the same.

Home is the lie that I tell myself
out for fear, so that when I say

“I should go out into the world”,
my inadequacy might be excused.

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