I yearn for my body to feel like home
having lived in it more than two decades
It feels like an apartment I can’t stop renting
I love it yet I can’t limit my hate

The walls are soaked in my failures
and the paint is the colour of my victories
It hasn’t even been three decades yet?
and I feel like I’ve been trapped for centuries

The plants have died of lack of sun
and I can’t get the windows to open
But the door frame and its beautiful fixtures
are exactly the shade I was hoping

The kitchen shelves are too low, oven too high
it aches me to reach them and cook
This apartment bleeds stories that I must write
and that I cannot read in a pre-existing book

Living in this same mundane routine
feeding off love I often find in my trash
And then there’s the pool of self-pity and loathing
and I dive right in with a splash

My bedroom is anything but solace inside
as it screams at me in the voice of regret
I walk in tired of the day on my body
and I hardly ever make it to my bed

I’ll call it home someday I suppose
when I’ll clean it of its inhumanity 
My body will house a window to my soul
and we’ll never hear tales of its profanity

I shower myself to the dread of never being enough
can someone assure me it’s just a scam?
I will find my love for myself soon
and I’ll call it home without giving a damn

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