Home?
Knock, knock...
Who’s there?
Suicidal mother, never was there father? Abusive step father and dead lover? Anyone?
Father? Rapist one, two, three? Demons?
Hello! Where did everyone go.... why did you leave me too?
Wind like fingers brush against the wind chimes of scars to let me know it’s home. Creaky floor boards signal when someone is by the door. Appliances that need residential instructions. You know the ones... the microwave clock is on time but the radio is is 45 minutes behind. The oven door doesn’t close and if you want to use the microwave you have to use paper plates.
There is a room upstairs that isn’t properly insulated so the winters are full of cold toes and blankets and the summers are... gross. The inside part where your elbow is, I’m not sure what it’s called but it gets sticky in the summer and it sucks.
But it’s in that room where I’m comfortable. I don’t think of the Leakey shower faucet in the stairway restroom. The broken fan in the den or the rooms and how they have to be cleaned.
I bolt my hand made door and sit at my desk and knock.
Trying to fill a void with memories.