Fleeting
My home is a cardboard box
Loaded onto another moving truck
Destine for another location.
Time number six? eight? eleven?
I lose count easily.
Too tiring trying to keep up.
Eyes moving back and forth,
Igniting lightheadedness.
My brain inflames,
Engulfing the memories
That come with the moving truck.
Perhaps I liked this room.
The window seat and soft carpet.
Perhaps I grew attached to the kitchen,
Its smells and sights a phantom now.
Oh well.
Calluses burn from another tape roll.
Cardboard slices worn skin,
Christening the carpet with my blood.
The only personal thing left now,
A dark stain on trampled carpet.
"Are you prepared?"
I nod like a liar.
"Don't worry, you'll make new friends."
I shrug away their lies.
Nothing is ever the same.
The door shuts and locks
Like our old front door.
Pressing my face against the window,
I watch my old home fade
As we pull off to another.