Coming Home


Home has always
Evaded me.
The bricks walls,
Sharp handled doors,
White, bright, clean, like a
Mortuary, or maybe a
Padded cell.
The numbers on it’s sign said
But I am learning not to trust
What my heart does not believe.
My home is in the swirling winds,
Cooling and buffeting,
Wrapping me up as I stare into the
Distant land or sea.
My home is in the radiating warmth
Of a blue dotted mug, big handles,
Steam twirling around my hair,
Warming me.
My home is in the clouded up windows
Of a car, filled to bursting with
A friendship of words we could not whisper anywhere else,
Four knees together, holding hands.
My home is in the softness
Of her safest arms, wrapping
Perfect words around my pulsing pain,
Her perfect scent, her colours engulf me,
Her heartbeat, my foundations.
I have felt
But the numbers told me a lie.
What was inside that building was
Not my home.
Home is where you find love,
Where you make it.
For all my hardest work,
Through all the agonising homelessness,
I mustn’t forget,
I am making my own home.


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