I am wandering.
A home does not have me.
I wish I wasn’t homeless.
Which means,
I wish I had a place that I could reside.
For more than a night.
A place that feels right
for me.
Permanently
or at least without worry of
where I’ll be staying next week.
Or even the next day.
It is pure misery.
The waiting and
the not knowing.
Because if we’re speaking honestly,
Being a refugee
is killing me.

I wish my mom cared about me.
I wish she truly understood me.
But alas it is me
Who cares for her being,
Who cares if she eats
and how she’s feeling.
Whether she’s weeping
or screeching
my love comes plenty
or it did until she took and took
and left me empty.

and no one cares about me.

what’s stopping me from disappearing?
I should just grab the sharpest object
closest to me
and get to slashing
and slitting  
and cutting.
I should obliquely
forge my arm
while having a conversation with myself
“Heat the blade”
I would say
“Maybe it won’t sting.”
Yeah and maybe it’ll leave a pretty little line
that’ll remind me that my perception
has always been undoubtedly clogged.