I imagine a place.
A home warm with love and all the trappings for me to grow up whole. And then I recall the real one. The first crime done against a against wee me. It was horrendously vague, these acts my mind has done away with. And they've at compounded. Her childhood heart left with trace smears and scents of anxiety, fear. What I present now is a whole that is an unkempt presentation Adult. Awkwardness in her non-presentness within the world. Her own body. An utter lack of social graces she should have, that should have been taught. And the cracking smile hiding a slow burning hatred for a warring world she was never armed for. Unknowingly that home had housed her first the unconscious malefactors. They'd sown the disinformation and doubt. Facts coming later when her responses had suited and mirrored their reactive trauma. Lonely happiness a fog she creates in her mind. She still lives in this place. Her home and it has changed. She has grown content with her dissatisfaction. They are soft-threaded and well worn blankets. She is a whole cobbled together with toxic glue of hope and aspirations. Dreams. She inhales it every day just to remain sane. She is warm in her home. Her delusional fictive dreams are exhales, chocking smoke, that keep her so.
