When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation:
a continental drift that dragged me by the wrists
and it was as if i was a ballerina that twirled
away too swift, so deep in desperation.
It was my fault, I say.
Home looked like marble tiles and candelabras on mahogany, so grazed with grandeur
solemn servants and chauffeurs
a prison echoing empty space
prim and proper, neat and tidy, dental dexterity
and a library of unsealed books i don’t read.
When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation,
but i had dreams too big to fit my pockets,
and living at home was essentially sedation.
It was all my fault, I say.

When my home shrunk
into 228 square feet-
stretched out 8821 miles away,
I was ready for reparations:
Ready to cocoon myself inside
for 28 hours, to be locked up in my little tower.
I’m free now, I say.
Home looked like my only dish,
unwashed for three whole days
sheets one solid colour
white walls
pantslessness
and an entire shelf of unsealed books i don’t read.
I rise to the setting of the sun;
water boiling in a kettle, and
i make instant noodles because there’s never
a place more silent and shielding
than home.
I am free now, I say.


When I bought a place of my own,
Home was just the right temperature
but too many cluttered corners.
my mind exhales
A pair of incessantly open arms await me,
and i get shamed for the books i lunge around
but don’t really read
there is no spit in my face
but there are kicks at my back
i am learning
that all the freedom in the world doesn't keep you
from the prison you hold in your own mind
i am learning
what a home feels like
for the very first time

i open my eyes to sunshine and orange juice
and the morning breath of a lover so oblivious to misery
our souls sing in flawless harmony

i am finally home
*and my mind exhales again