Home. 

The only home I ever truly had
Lays beneath the skin and bones I was born with
I’ve wasted so much time
Filling bricks and mortar
With memories and bric a brac

I’ve held onto things that no longer served me
Paid money for memorabilia left to gather dust
My hands have scrubbed and screamed
At the things I once held dear

My cupboards bulged with clothes
Never worn
Books never read
And shoes I’ve never walked in

I’ve kept things for best
Things for skinny days
Candles for when I’m stressed
Only to forget where they were

There have been gifts given
And received
Left unwanted 
By giver and receiver

I have filled bathtubs with tears
Opened letters of fear
Kept a record of time
On the wall 
Without hearing the jeers

Every home I ever had
Has taken something back
My innocence
My dreams
My hopes
And my pride

All hidden in the basement
Burnt on the open fire
Or taken by someone else’s pride
They have been the price
I’ve had to pay for the place
I am told I should be most content

It was all a lie
An undulating seesaw
Of love and contempt
A manipulative motion 
To take me from the truth

That the only home 
I’ll ever have
Doesn’t have a roof
The only place I can call home
Is buried deep within my soul

It was with me from the 
Moment I drew my first breath
It will only ever disappear
When I turn the key
And enter into death. 
Clare Kinnaird, 2025.