You aren’t home, not yet.
Not your red shirt,
The smell of your sweat–
A boy’s cologne.
You are not yet my home.
Rinse and repeat
Fingers circling my wrists, your cheek
Brushing my shoulder. Your hand
Grazing my waist.
Your arms are braces, brackets,
You hold like a vice; your chest is a panel
Of narra. A wall. A rock and a hard place.
I am cornered, not cradled.
I am held, I am trapped in your memory
And by it. I have built from it a cage
With no lock, but only bars.
But I have always been free to go.
Because you, you are not my love.
And you are not my home.