The children lived near a large field
It was summertime
The grass was brown
Almost a taupe color

Sometimes they would play softball or just run around the entire field
Hoping to take off into the sky like birds

By the field was a forest
It was full of tall pine trees and others
The pines seemed to touch the sky
The children used to climb the trees and sit on the branches looking out on the land
They felt free

One day they decided to build a tree house in one particular pine tree
It was their favorite

They gathered wood and other supplies from their houses to make it
They spent hours building it
It was their secret
They swore an oath to not tell their parents

When finished they climbed inside
Hidden from the world
They stayed for hours
Enjoying the breezes and listening to the branches and leaves rustling
The smell of pine filled the air
It was intoxicating

The children were so happy
They felt on top of the world
They never wanted it to end

I feel myself
being consumed
by the universe—
a little more each day.

The sky draws light
from my wounds,
and pulls colour
from my blood—
into rainbows.

I melt,
drown,
vanish—
like ice in wine,
quietly disappearing.

My edges
start to blur,
my shape
less defined.

Though I vanished,
I made the act
of giving fuller—
Like melting ice
lifting water,
An ascent
born gently
from my dissolving.

I used to think
home had a door.
A key.
A roof that remembered my name.

But I’ve lived in places
that never made space for my silence.
Places that knew my footsteps
but not my fears.

I carry pieces of home
in chipped mugs,
in songs that smell like childhood,
in people I no longer speak to.

Sometimes, home is a voice,
cracked with laughter
in a place I had to leave.

Sometimes, it’s a moment
sunlight on tired skin,
or the way someone says
“You can rest here.”

I’ve learned
that belonging doesn’t always mean staying,
and leaving doesn’t mean forgetting.

Home isn’t always where you were born.
Sometimes,
it’s where you stopped pretending.
I don’t know if I’ve found mine yet.
But I know what it isn’t.
And that’s something.

One petal left—
But the rose doesn’t cry.
On petal left—
Yet the rose still try’s.
One petal left—
But color still radiates.
Hope is what powers,
The rose,  
No matter the fate.