Birds have a homing instinct that drives them to the same place year after year— to travel vast distances and still find that one hollow to roost in at dusk.
My birthland is a husk. My heartland is the one I carry with me. As a pendant, a tattoo, a flower I point out when cycling past a cluster. As a memory, of the February the mother in me became and died.
When dusk descends and the day's threads unravel, my hollow awaits amidst the heather. What is that, if not home?
Home can be a person, a place, a feeling and always the thing you name it to be.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery / 𝘱𝘰𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺
Poetry❝The calm in my marrow spoke in muted bursts of fireworks. I was born for explosions and trying to be less.❞ Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. Th...
