Home

She’s mine.

My first.

Mine.

My beautiful royal blue couch, I used for my bed after I bought for $500, I had to borrow from the business because I couldn’t afford her.

Mine.

Throw pillows no one complains about or throws on the floor.

She’s mine.

The 80 blankets, needing every layer for the human burrito, I sometimes turn into.

Shoes line the walls, on display for the world to see. Not ever shoved into a closet.

She’s mine.

She’s quiet and safe and mine.

Pictures and decor resembling genitalia and nudity.

She’s mine.

Fire escape where I’ve read, cried, and watched fireworks, with no one seizure or getting triggered.

She’s mine.

The floor I vacuum when I’m stressed, where I’ve never cleaned up someone else’s piss, blood or vomit.

She’s mine.

The nook, with the books, bamboo sheets, 4 pillows and what ever the fuck else I didn’t feel like cleaning up.

Home is not something I feel I have had but she’s mine.