Home is red bricks and cracked plasterboard, dust, cat hair, unwashed dishes.
Home is alone.
Alone is filth and no saviour to resolve for the plump of cushions will not smoother until the dark of moon.
Trying to sleep but find the darkness is not found when the same blue crocs from summers gone arrive again in winter.
Bottle caps litter desks, signs of hidden sorrow far from home.
Hidden secrets for daylight’s sake daring only to seek out comfort in shadows.
Hunger for something other, something more, something to call safe, not tattoos of lies tucked away inside.