When did your home become a prison? and I don't mean the home you share, the home you paint, the home you lay shattered glass to rest, or the home you know to find loved ones.
What I mean is you. Your skin, that changes colour at the suns will. Skin that everyone else sees, and the water touches. Where the chemicals of fragrances collect-- where you have felt kisses and anguish. I mean your bones, that could break so easily but they carried you long after you forgot their strength. I mean the rib cage that holds all of you in. The air that rests between your lungs, and everything that's wired to your heart. I mean the signals that form your words, and the sound of your voice that old lovers still mourn about. When did your home become a prison? When did you forget that no one else has the keys? That freedom doesn't have to feel like a tired walk home?