home is not where i was born nor is it the last house i lived in before i moved to one of my own because i happen to move every time i feel like dying
i think my home will always be a place i have not laid eyes on yet my mother taught me to think this way what you have now does not matter
what will you have? well, mother i will have a home full of maybes a home full of people i do not know and probably their children
i will have questions like smoke around my head but i've never picked up a cigarette do i love my husband? do i love my wife? do i love the ones who gave me everything?
do i love my bloody hands? still wet from peeling back what's temporary in search of something more one day the only thing left to see will be my entire life laid out like a map in front of me
all my maybes, all my homes all the people i swore i did not love this will be my legacy my smoke filled air will outlive me.