Home.

There is a home filled with little candles and weird aromas
with an army of canned black beans and a little dog,
the owls look at me and I look back at them.
The Owls. Creepy and pretty.

I used to sleep around toxic fog
I used to shower in pain
I used to expect sad endings. 

There is a home in the top of a hill,
absent from the outside, from the mean and the lonely,
with a sliding door open to my entire adopted family and free booze.
Always free booze for my brothers. 

The doors always locked
the kitchen was a desert 
the bedroom like a glass of warm beer. 

There is a home that repeats the same playlist daily
and where the food is always spicy and rich,
the cups are always filled and the plates are always full.
That home. Oh that home. 

A nomad no more. 

I have a home.

At last.