a poem
i think i make shelter
inside of myself for
people who are
building family homes
in someone else’s sunrise.
i am just the summer home.
i think i am pubic hair
shamed and stretch
marks glorified.
i think i hate all of this.
every inch of this.
every word.
every wasted data space.
every splotch of ink.
every photo.
i think i will
take that back
when i need it again.
i think i am always needing.
i can’t define what it means to want.
i don’t think i know what it means to want.
i think i am always trying to describe a home
i never lived in. i think i am always
trying to compete with lions.
but i am nothing more
than a hare who is
constantly being
swindled by
snakes.
