I don’t want to go homee.

I say this without opening my mouth.

Letting the ink I’d pour from a pen

spill out a keyboard instead.

“Homee”– the double e signals

I am a child, desperate in keeping

laughter alive.

Evicting itself from the cellar

I made out of worded memory-

you are so defensive

whenever anyone talks to you.

Why do you stare so intensely?

I hate the silence.

Off putting at best.

I don’t have much to say

when the circling chaos

is ten times in my head.

I scream to myself: Say

something to connect.

Cars. Money. Food.


But I can not say God.

You, I love.

I am void.


Out the windows

of Your home.

My body.






I have received

since my knitted being,

unable to accept,


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