homesickness: a poem

I'm painting butterflies over a grave,

I had visions but I'm now putting them to sleep,

five feet under.

I now stand as hollow as felicitations from a nemesis,

a corpse double-crossed by the hands that held its faith

it's fragile yet persistent and I'm well acquainted with its demon.

I hid her in my closet when I was seven,

and she's jinxed every slumber since.

She'd whistle restitution and I'd camouflage into a delicate state of innocence,

still standing, she's bursting through her seams yet again.

I'm a diminishing scent of bitterness of half-hearted goodbyes-

I've long given away.

The only reminder of time's timely stings I've long concealed in every page-

only to return when I have more to say.

And I always have more to say

but now- I'm dead on my feet and soul,

I just want to go home.