My home is the way
My husband reaches out
For me in his sleep, and
I am wrapped in his embrace
And his subconscious.

My home is the little kisses
On my fingers
When I stroke
My cat's nose.

My home is a wondering mind
That feels like a city
I hardly know, so
I keep returning to the same
Neighborhoods, because I'm
Too scared to wander alone.

My home is wondering
And questioning and doubting,
Because I can settle in uncertainty,
But am a guest in the house of peace.

My home is searching,
Frantically inspecting,
A detective on the hunt
For evidence of love
As dust settles on all the clues
I have collected and ignored.

My home is my hands
That roam over the skin
And fat I see, feeling
The extra on me that
My eyes can't subtract and
My fingers can't pinch
Back into skinny.

My home is forgiveness
For others before I give
Myself the chance to notice
The damage, smoothing over
The surface like makeup
Applied to a wound.

My home is hiding,
Fleeing, dodging the possibilities
Offered to me that have
Potential to be more
Than participation awards, but
Victories, because in every win
There is a loser that
Could be me.

Down, down,
Do I drown?
I could float
I have the fat,
I could swim,
But to what?
There is no shore,
There is no boat,
Life is in the water
And death is down below,
Make what we can
Of this treading and dreading,
Some taking beautiful
Strokes all around,
Right now I'm floating.
But when do I drown?

I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
my eyes, they dart,
my lips, they part,
and on and on
go the thoughts
during our chat,
this way and that,
here and now gone,
humming a song
while writing a line,
while drawing a face,
while lost in space.

I pet my cat,
I feel her fur,
I hear her purr,
I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
I'm in my chair,
then up then down,
smile and frown,
remember a thing
and forget the present,
scatter, find,
lose my mind,
leave the room
to fetch a broom,
see something else
on the shelf,
examine, pass,
step in the glass.

leave again,
find my pen,
write a note,
forget the quote,
look it up,
follow the thread,
realize I'm
still in my bed,
my foot is bleeding,
there's glass on the floor,
someone at the door,
could I have done more
to do a little less--
to clean the mess,
and write the note
and save the pen
and find the quote?

I hear her voice
the child inside,
coming in through
the static of
my constant critic
radio, she's been
screaming 'that's enough,
that's too much!' for
so long, she's been
hurt, she's been
wronged by a louder
sound I'm more used to tuning into,
the station of
doubt, fear, suspicion,
so much I've lost sight
of how much those
words sting,
bring
me down, tear me up,
convince me that I'm
not enough.

I think in causing
this initial pain I'm
saving myself from
the surprise of my
own mediocrity,
but living with a
lead coat on to
protect me from
the bullets of a
battle I'm no longer
fighting, it just
weighs me down,
till I'm ready to
give up, and I think
what's the point of
sparing that pain in
exchange for a less
humane option?

I feel like screaming and
I feel like doing nothing,
always teaming with
this imbalance,
not quenching either thirst.
By holding my tongue
and quieting my voice,
and interrupting my attempt
to do nothing by worrying,
worrying, and then that nothing becomes
something, it becomes wasted
energy, anxiety gone rotten,
a fruitless activity, producing
neither rest nor product,
my motivation to freeze
and stiffen and wait and
recede overpowers even the
fear of my own judgement,
who loves to blare loudly
that I'm lazy, that I'm
not enough, this stuff
i do is meaningless,
and I need to prove my
worthiness by being
exceptional in all ways, not
only all ways, but always,
not just sometimes,
and god stop complaining,
about the hurt and the pain,
it's so boring, it's so
standard, it's so privileged,
it's so bland, and
the more I do it the less
value I hold, i'm told
by my own self,
every poem that i write
that pleads for sympathy
and reaches out for connection
is just another title to add
to my collection of pathetic
writings, proving my biting
nails and troubled mind
do not an artist make,
but that it takes much more
talent and brain and effort
and refrain for this to
be any more than words
that fall to the floor to
be stepped on forever more.

It's like the two haven't met,
these different parts of me.
hard to see how they could be
residing in the same person.
But still, I think they'd get along.
After all they both belong
in the same party of misfits
that comprise this puzzled mind.
Fuzzy, trying to find
the connection between my
confident leader, and the shy
private eye, studying, studying
to see how she can make everyone
just a little more happy, just a little less
suspicious of just how vicious
I am on the inside,
always trying to hide these
thoughts of destruction,
disruption from my joy and ease,
I tease out the depression,
find the compression in my chest
and build the tension with the best
suspension of disbelief that
I'm still ok, and this is sustainable,
and maybe happiness is attainable,
but for now i'll just be so sad
I can't breathe because eventually
I'll get back to me, right?
the ending is in sight....right?

I'm arrived and I'm here
and I'm still just me.
my personality didn't exchange
i thought with that kind of range,
so far away, i couldn't stay
just the same.

but i'm no different, i'm not
working out daily and finding
my inner peace,
I thought travel held the keys
to improving myself, beyond
recognition.

where's the discipline?
i thought my derision of
habit would fall away,
shedding my awful in my stay.
i could be thin, i could win;
where's the discipline?

In buying the ticket
i thought i'd agreed
i was also buying the seed
to grow a new me, prettier,
funnier, healthier, sunnier.
but i'm here and i'm near
a breaking point.

I want to shed
my fat and my lack
of focus and sense,
dispense with the nonsense
and get sharp and get cool,
come home like a knife
come home a better wife.