Home is not a chain-locked door.
It's not a first aid kit under your pillow,
nor is it a box cutter in your desk drawer.
Home is not a cover-your-ears-and-be-somewhere-else.
It isn't a ****** stuffed animal,
nor is it a shirt you can never get clean.
Home isn't where hands fly up and come crashing down,
rather than hands holding hands
making the London Bridge that's
falling down
falling down
falling down,
but never on top of anyone;
always around into a warm embrace.

Home is not a chain-locked door,
but rather a door always propped open
with the lights on
and music playing
So everyone knows you’re there
Home is not the two hands cupped together
Hiding the scrapes,
Hiding the bruise,
Hiding the blood,
Hiding everything.

Home is not a chain-locked door.
It's not an election of proper hiding places,
or a search for an efficient escape route.
It isn't the cold feet on the cold floor
with cold hands that shake.
Home isn't dodging floorboards that creak
Like your life depended on it
Because your life depended on it.

Home isn't tracing cracks and skid marks on the walls
remembering that one time
and that time
and that time
and that time
and that time.

No, home is not a chain-locked door.