Hope

People used to tell me that my body was my home.

That the house I grew up in didn't matter

as long as I was happy with the home I made inside myself.

I remember the dirty looks from the girls,

and the sly looks from the guys as she pulled me aside

and asked me "how dare you try to burn it down?"

Disappointment.

How was I supposed to explain that the definition of home

was a firecracker that a little girl threw in a wood stove?

That the embodiment of those four letters did not walk or have eyes,

but it was hard, and labeled ANVIL and i barely saw it each day

as it made its way to my lungs, falling quickly,

making sure to cut off my air on its way.

That home was a slow suffocation from a gas leak in the kitchen

and all I wanted to do was light a cigarette?

Disappointment.

I asked her, "How do you not expect oil to be engulfed in flame

in the presence of a lighter?"

I saw the sly looks of the guys as she shook her head and turned away,

and the dirty looks from the girls as I walked back in front of her.

"If you make a home inside yourself just make sure it's not flammable.

it doesn't matter if others can build better, or stronger,

your home belongs to you.

And it's up to you what you do with it."