Bleach

This is the bleach on the walls.

Where I want to live,

where I was born to become from.

Grey clouds make droplets of tasteful love -

finishing leftover petals

from the honey flower I chewed.

Mother called,

& through the clean screen door

I smelled warm bread

& the plastic of our short-rug.

In a kind of heavenly happiness

I float inside the room

laughing sweetly

with everyone around me.

What a comfort.

What a clean slate.