Apollo's Home
do you know the word home?
do you know what it means?
do you know what it
smellstastessounds
like?
do you know what it
feels
like
?
do you know what home
doesn’t
smelltastesound
feel
like
?
it doesn’t smell like bleach from a
a pristinely cleaned kitchen or
the new paint in that
cold uninviting grey.
it doesn’t taste like leftovers from last week or
“go buy yourself a pizza-
I won’t be home for dinner”
((again))
It doesn’t sound like you yelling at me or
hitting me or
hurting me at all.
no,
a home with no feeling is no home at all.
and it would take God Himself to change it.
…
or maybe, just, a Godsend.
do you know Apollo?
do you know who he is?
the God of
truth and
music and
healing and
who
the
heck
cares?
he’s dead anyways, isn’t he?
((isn’t he?))
if only Apollo himself
would knock at my door
maybe then i'd actually invite someone in
maybe then i'd stop noticing the walls
maybe then this would feel like home.
he’d ask me what’s wrong and i’d tell him just what
not censoring my words at all.
i’m so certain he’d listen, and nod and think
look me in the eyes
state the truth
and help me pick up the pieces
he’d trail behind him the hum of a song, a little jig in his feet.
we’d make dinner together
gnocci, our favorite,
dancing mamba to our favorite beats.
we’d sing so loud our neighbors would hear us
(that’s the only yelling there’d be)
no hitting
no screaming
no hurting
just healing.
if Apollo could be here with me.
as hard as it was
and is
and will be-
i guess i’ll get by
"put on my big girl pants"
and get over it
alone.
except
wait actually
it’s just
that i’ve realized:
Apollo’s alive in my mum.
we don't care if the kitchen is dirty
we don't care if it's pristine
we know we have eachother
and that's all the home we need.