we taped our photos up on
the cinder block walls
and called it home, but
the word was slippery on
my tongue because
anywhere is a prison cell if it’s not
where you want to be. 

i scratched his name into
my wooden dresser
followed by R.I.P.
and that 38″ by 75″ mattress was
my lifeboat through the desert,
leading me to mirages I’d awaken from
with teary eyes and a mouth full
of sand. 

even the toilet paper
had my blood on it.
i would write love on my arms
in marker
to hide my scars,
but kept the ones in my 
eyes exposed
just in case someone could hear
the way i pleaded 
through the receiver: please take me
home, home, home.