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.
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Blood Orange Periphery
PoesiaMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
