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Reflections of Home

I hate being home.

 

I love the feeling of home. I’ve created homes for myself and lived in places that felt homey, but when I go home I just hate it.

 

I can get myself to be myself for about a week, but then I start seeing them.

 

The bits of my body, the bits of my soul, scattered on the sofa or the coffee table. I have pictures and quantum delusions that sweep my mind into a livewire, crumbling the façade of chaos that ensconces me when I am not in this graveyard.

 

I hate being home.

 

When I’m home the walls around me vibrate in slow decay.

The paint chips and unchips, paints and unpaints, is and not is forever.

Time is both a yes and a no.

 

My mind, spirit not resident within, was quite active in remembering the self-inflicted blows, the cycles; “but I’m different now”.

 

I say it… Barely pretending as if my mental health ever gets better.

 

I hate being home.

 

Home is where the hatred is. It fills me with reminders, ticking clocks left going that burned bridges with so many. I never was much of a one for texting.

 

I want to touch somebody.

I want to know somebody.

 

We all think we have the answers, but we’re wrong. We are SOOO wrong.

 

I look at people. And we look at me.

We all seem to stand together. But we rupture at the seams.

Our chorus runs from we to you. You’d never know our name.

From this to that and to nowhere, we cry for me, for shame.

 

 

I hate being home.

 

The feeling pervades and returns, sometimes I feel like I’m… My DNA is dying.

Maybe I’m mutating? Maybe I’m just this way because I’ve always been this way?

Maybe I just had an expiry date for associating any action I took with the male perspective.

 

I don’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever know.

 

And my thoughts, why are they slugs?

They seem to scuttle this way and that when I shine a light their way.

 

I’m stuck in the spirit place; I cannot leave it. I’ve been stuck here for forty years, determining the exact measure of the Sun. I don’t have any eyes, so I tend to feel it. I’ve been taking plunges into its screams.

The plasma smells like metal. Or maybe that’s just how hot it is?

I can’t remember the last time I saw Mars so high in the sky!

It seems to be rising every night.

 

I hate being home.

 

I see the pictures staring at me. I look into them and transportation lines feed around my muscles, collapsing my skeletal frame into a rarified conniption of fear and paranoia. The Me that stares out of those walls wrings itself with years and laughs at what Me would have called a fool.

 

I would have said, “You’re trying too hard” or “Why wear makeup? Why make yourself look good?”...

It’s because of those thoughts that I think I was a man…once. Yet now, I am not. It is simple, and yet the most complex thing.

It took me 22 years to figure out that I was non-binary.

 

That is how suppressed these ideas are.

These ideas break most people’s worldview.

It is commonplace.

It is normal.

 

I am lucky that I had the education to find this out about myself.

 

 

I am privileged for that.

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