What is a home if not
A collection of love and care
A place where sorrow can be forgot
Homemade soup boiling in a pot
A place that is foreign to despair
What is a home if not
A place without barter, for some things are not bought
Nothing to contrast or compare
A place where sorrow can be forgot
A loving smile, the want for aught
The smell of coffee in the air
What is a home if not
A happy story with a gentle plot
Where little is argued and fights are fair
A place where sorrow can be forgot
A friend, a family, a pet, all caught
In the oldest and most loving snare
What is a home if not
A place where sorrow can be forgot
About the Creator
Cereal Oatmeal
Autistic, Pan, Trans
I use all pronouns including neopronouns!
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Clinging to Childhood
The playground is empty, as it should be past sundown. There is a warm breeze, and I can see everything despite the late hour. What time is it, anyway? It could very well be past midnight. I can never keep track of time, especially in the summer. A prickly piece of popcorn hides like a stowaway in the left cup of my padded training bra. I stuffed the tissue in last minute— a decision I’m beginning to regret, based on the events that are unfolding rapidly before me. To my left, laying non-chalantly on his back, is my date for the evening. He is two years older, could probably grow facial hair if he wanted to, and drives a secondhand Honda. He may as well be a Man. I, on the other hand, feel like a fraud with my too-short short-shorts, sparkly lip gloss, and makeshift push-up bra. I keep my arms pinned to my sides as I feel the dreaded circles of sweat beginning to manifest on my brand new Abercrombie top. I cup my elbows with my hands and stare down at my hint of cleavage, praying that the tissue doesn’t pop out like a white flag surrendouring my lack of womanhood.
By Marti Maley7 days ago in Fiction
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