i stop dead in my tracks
when referring to their
house, because it doesn't
seem like mine anymore
but I'm confused as to
what really is a home
in the truest sense of
the thing because
I feel like a molecule
in a widening bubble
the farthest from claustrophobia
that I've ever been, there's nobody
that I want to see, and everywhere
I want to go, but like a machine I
seem to require the right environment
to function, so i'm canceling all my plans
ripping excuses out of the cookbook
missing the sun when it's right outside
my window, sometimes right above my
head--and this rug beneath my feet feels
more like the only safe place in Canon
everything else doesn't belong, everything
else doesn't          fit eve
                                        rything
else can't           be in the s a me room as  



me.