I wish I can go back home,
borrow a blanket from the living
room that was once filled with
me and my cousins' dancing,
gather four pricks from the street,
the same street I used to steal flowers from,
that now steals people's blood and lives,
borrow a branch or two from the berry tree
that my mom used to make juice out of
and give to our neighbours,
they only reside in my head now,
build a tent in my parents' backyard,
the same backyard where
I held my 6th birthday party at,
that birthday had to end early as
there was a more important event happening;
the Americans were bombing
the area I used to run so free in,
with all of my friends,
whom I never got to say goodbye to,
never get to see how puberty hit them,
or even know if they're still alive today,
today,
I live under a stable roof,
I run away from the thought of home,
because it kills me that
I left the land that once
gave birth to me,
kept me warm,
warmer than I would personally like,
once.