I used to call this home:
That’s Garden Grove, CA. Out of all the homes I’ve had that was the most devestating, damaging and beautiful home.
I can still smell the roses, nectarines, and death. After my grandmother was dead and buried we moved to a new home one
this home was lost but never forgotten.
My next home:
Anoka, MN. Cold, desolate. The people were constantly depressed and in agony. Stuck in purgatory.
Anoka burned to the ground. My house caught fire, and that’s when things started to really change for me.
It was no longer home anymore, nothing felt the same…every where I went felt wrong. I gave it up to come to CA again.
For a while I called this my home:
The firebird. Excellent and frightening memories of this place. I still have the blood stains from some of those memories on my clothes. But even this home died, and will soon be taken away.
I’ve had a bad track record with homes. They never seem to last very long. I tried telling myself I didn’t really need one. Then I became homeless. Now I’m not.
Now I am. No. Wait.
My new home:
Wherever you are.
This home I won’t lose, can’t lose. It won’t catch fire, or crumble. It won’t devestate me, or make me run away.
Mine.
Yours.
OURS.
