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.