Home
Where I’m from
For some folks
Is apple pie and Jesus.
A comfortable,
Unchallenged existence
Filled with Bud Light,
Cornfields,
And dirty looks at people with colored hair
And piercings.
Home to them is avoidant.
All scripture but no heart,
All hate and no depth.
Home to them is a place I am ashamed to be associated with.
Me,
With my Paganism
And love for girls
And boys
And everyone in between.
Me,
With my “voice”
And “opinions”
And resistance to complacency.
Home to me is boiled bones
And tanned hides,
Open hearts and mixed drinks.
It’s a love that’s not conditional on
How I spend my Sundays
Or who I spend them with.
Home is all the folks
Who don’t see their own validity
Who pretend to be something they’re not
Out of necessity.
Home is knowing I can’t change where I come from,
But I can change who comes from it.
I can be the home they never got,
Open my door to those who can’t ever go back
Welcome them with a smile,
A cup of tea,
And a hug that breathes,
You are allowed to exist.
- - -
No comments:
Post a Comment