the difference between house and home

there was never a family foundation to begin with

even before i reach it, i know

there are clothes on the bed

no different from any other time.

the shirts on the bottom 

are folded perfunctorily

underwear tossed haphazard

the closer to the top 

i look.

i think of my mother's house

barely any furniture

objects

things

clutter

to clutter the space or capitalize

colonize

my mind.

it's only one story

seven rooms

if i'm being generous

but it feels bigger than this

two story house

with suitcases full of

tarnished tatters of 

terrible secrets

objects

things

clutter

around my room that i leave

as is

my brother's first grade 

oil pastel artwork on the wall

the artless accumulation of 

stuff 

things

telltale traces of trauma

that tiptoe tactlessly

around troubled trinkets

only tangentially tangible terrain.

where

i think

where is 

the slippery sense of settling 

into my own skin

where is

the clutterless cupholder

made for me

where is 

when is

home

Author's Note

Not really looking for this to be critiqued. Thanks for reading.