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.
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.
dawns torn from notebooks.
Turn corners to find tucked away resentment,
a failed sisterhood, a troubling weight,
a sense of “too familiar.”
See this flesh.
This flesh is growing back.
Let’s say it’s growing up.
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.