Home was just an idea I lived for
until I was old enough
to move away
a series of evictions,
and unpacked boxes.
The way I ran and
away from it
defined me more
than the way I lived it.
I don’t carry baggage or scars,
just a couple storage containers
in the back of my closet,
full of random childhood things.
I don’t dare open up,
lest I become her again,
that girl who put it all there in the first place.
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