Thursday, December 19, 2013

i look forward to going home in the way that a criminal looks forward to sirens, full of fear, resentment, relief.

i step with heavy(ier) shoes now into the room i (did not) grow up in like a
museum, a hotel, a haunted house; it is filled with
photographs of ghosts, things that do not belong to who i am now-
pieces of hemp string, dusty pens, carpet stains with a strange sense of muted 
familiarity like seeing a person you definitely (maybe) went to high school with and i can
never tell what age has done to our faces, home makes me feel 
ashamed and sixteen.
i am made of sharp angles now and my jawline is bone;
they wonder, i'm sure, if my face has changed as well,
they wonder if we had English class together or if i 
am a complete stranger (now).







No comments:

Post a Comment