I Don’t Dare to Go Home

(Written in the car with my eyes closed).

I don’t dare to go home.

Home smells like damp

and decay

on my father’s worn clothes.

But sometimes,

I go there in my mind—

to the tiny bedroom window

where trees framed my view

like a painting too large

for the walls I grew up in.

I hear the rain.

I hear the birds

in the dark confinements

of that childhood room.

And I remember—

those hours before the house woke,

the hush of everything still breathing,

were the only thing

that kept me

alive.