This home is a single lone confined space. Started my short years here, my heart claim an escape out a dome the soft of round, fertile shape of a woman's breast. Broke through the surface, I am newborn lived a thousands of lives before. Cradled, my mother stare at walls for decades as the pores of breezeblocks ooze red blooming rusted chippings like blood blossoms shaved off this dome walls.
My home is a war of ribbon tied tongue, two part tongue cut, then pressure-held and bound by a slit of red string. The kitchen was one place where voices ought to adjectives and one's voice is an art of friction on air. The vibrations laid in waves of arguments and cruel mouths passed tell-tale of ignorance plays like an ongoing war. This wasteland is my home. This losing war is a fight. Escape me. Forfeited.
Home at last. The metal walls stay warm perhaps feeding off the heat of salted cheeks of the citizens. On the landmark entrace I stand, around me, there were tall walls and there were people taking turn to fall into a city, a cascade of flesh that are naked and so exposed by default of natural states. I am bothered by the flow of it all yet I am fluid, if not, far more languid, in these carcasses, masses of human vessels.
