This is my home.

You enter through the front door and
immediately take off your shoes,
although the carpet is permanently
stained from muddy sneakers
and Coke Zero spills,
and the one time she brought out
a knife screaming at him to get out
and all he left were three blood stains.

But welcome to my home.

Here you have the living room
with the sunken in couches
and the television that only plays
five good channels on a good day.

We go into the kitchen and find
every electronic cooking instrument
known to man.
Blender, microwave, coffee maker,
toaster, George Forman grill, waffle maker
and not to mention my Easy Bake Oven.

I lead you up fourteen stairs
to my sanctuary.
My childhood bedroom that I
used to share with my sister now
belongs to me and every wretched demon
my mind has created.

My bed is soft and warm,
and I invite you to lay down with me
to count how many glow in the dark
stars I pasted on my ceiling at age seven,
but you refuse.  

The last place I show you is the bathroom,
where I ripped the medicine cabinet off the wall
trying to find Wonderland but God knows I was
no Alice.
I collapse on the cool tiles like I have so many
times before, and you finally kneel down with me.

My home is two thousand-two hundred and fifty square feet,
and there’s still no room to breathe.