Semi-trucks scream through the darkness

stuck between where they’ve been and where they’ve yet to be

And the rhythmic clapping in my head creates a haunting repetition of memories 

I want to go home

I want to go home

The wind chimes titter at my pleas 

Ghostly scars on the backs of my hands remind me why I should grow roots

here instead of there

Rain pelts ominously on my window, threatening to pierce my nightmares 

already eerie enough for two 

Demons harmonize in the back of my mind, reaching a beautiful crescendo 

(the acoustics in here are fantastic)

and there is nothing I can do but join in on the applause 

because as much as I hate them all, they really deserve it

I squeeze tight my cellar doors 

But instead of receding from reality 

my mind has exquisitely replicated the scenes on the backs of my lids

Old films I am forced to watch in both consciousness and slumber

I wish to burn from the inside out

escape once and for all

reduced to nothing more than a pile of ashes, doused by those same, relentless droplets 

A plume, twisting seductively into the blackness 

that so engulfed me

 

I want to go home. 

Published by Alison Howe