nomad

I want to go home
it's something I have wanted
since I was about four
when I first started to really notice the difference in ages
of me and my sisters
who were almost old enough to be my mother
in some horrible lifetime movie
that followed the one where Meredith Baxter Birney-
or Joanna Kerns-
one of them
wakes up on a bus
with a bloody dress
and no memory.
She wanted to go home too
but she didn't know where it was,
or if it was,
or how to get there.
I can relate.

I want to go home.
Just tell me where it is
so I can find it.
I wish you could be OCD with me
and put me where I should go
and I could revel in my inanimacy
never stray from the spot where you placed me
chosen for me to be
but I know-
even if you could
even if you would
it wouldn't be home.

And I can't ask you to be God
because then you wouldn't exist
and I would be more alone than I already am
curled into you as you breathe and drift off
completely and blissfully ignorant
that I am no closer to knowing where I belong
than I am to knowing why the fuck
everyone is so fascinated with reality television
and women who can't stop hoarding children
so I turn from the ceiling
bury my face deeper into your shoulder
and make a home for myself in your skin.