I look around my home and
know I've made a place my own
Let me explain,
I've lived alone since aged 16, it's probably
better this way,
and I haven't felt regret, not now, not
Yet, hopefully never. Yes, pieces of pain and
bits and bobs of bitterness litter my hall,
I can't hoover it all, but
Regret? There was no point, there
was never another option.

So I've rearranged furniture, and I've
sulked in my room, I've cried, I've
wanted to die and I've lined up my
windowsill ready to watch snow.
I've watched lovers come and go, been
opened up, watched muck littered and
have thrown it all against the filled up
wall, wished mum's hoarding away.
I've stayed, this place is mine now.

And in the wreckage of my banishment
I've made a shelter of some sort and I've
guided others in, a brightly cluttered and warm
bin for troubles. I've sat them down and made
them doubles, sometimes they just want to talk
and sometimes they just want to sin,
usually they want arms which will allow them in
sometimes to wallow, and I've given
them a pillow and wished them to sleep.
I've watched people weep here.

And so my home becomes their's too.