the ugly, tasteless foriegn rugs.
the stiff deco couch in the living room.
the stack of mismatched matresses in the bedroom.
              things that stand out.

i am among the pink tiles in a half
safe haven, in a place that almost
     almost reminds me of home
     if i look at it just right
the sink dripping and the paint on the ceiling cracks and
     the mirror is broken
so i can watch distorted images of myself
and pretend to pose for a camera if i cannot think of anything to write.

          still your home. not mine.
      but i am safe until you knock on the door.
how many times can we have the same conversation
    in different words and silences.
i am once and always defeated by your conclusion.
         "no, child. you will stay"
 but not words.
         "no, child. there is no place
          for you."
 never in words.

and here my sister comes knocking,
    do you see?
knocking, and i have no home.

my mother, she, my mother found a loop and dove, she did,
    and i have no home.

 we are both selfish,
  but i got the short end.

here i am, baby sylvia, sleeping
    in closets and trying, trying
        almost.

so leave now, because i will
when i get mine, and believe me honey
             mine is coming, oh
             mine is coming.

i'll take it all down home,
     yeah, home.
  and i can spend any sunday
  evening i want to sit in the
  empty bathtub and complain
  about it all.

"no, child, not your home.
 not home."
      never in words.
      just in the way i got cheated.

 mine is coming, oh,
 mine is coming.