by Rose McAleese
(The last time you were home you had a cut on your forearm.
You move to another city, where it healed.
On a visit back,
your fingers stumbled across said mark and begin to scratch at it.)
This is that moment where “home” has become nothing more than a scar metaphor.
Upon arriving to this city,
I remembered how much I missed the cold.
How miserable this weather really is.
How much I love how miserable this weather really is.
Like a bad boy.
Like how the sun,
leans on the clouds,
like it’s saying:
“I am not trying to be here.
Like I have better places to be.
But I am here now.
So,
you’re welcome.”
I remembered how much I love getting warm.
Like how I wore five layers the first day here.
Like how I only wore my own skin in my childhood bed every night.
I then remember this city stashes a lot of fear.
Broken evenings,
dawns torn from notebooks.
Turn corners to find tucked away resentment,
a failed sisterhood, a troubling weight,
a sense of “too familiar.”
Ex lovers.
(Point here)
See this flesh.
This flesh is growing back.
Let’s say it’s growing up.
Like me.
As best as it can.
What’s home and scars metaphors without a pinch of love.
Leads me to here.
Where I think about you.
Think about how I want to break you.
Like a wishbone.
Like I was hoping you would ask me where I’ve been.