M. Hank

I am jealous of books,

the stories that have been created from beautiful minds,

but they tear me apart inside.

I'm jealous of every broken character who finds their place,

their person,

their home,

Normal days,

tragic endings,

I was playing games,

you were seeing lights,

I was listening to background noise and music,

you were hearing sirens.

Glass breaking,

life shattering,

Love is a paradoxical thing. 

I want desperately to be loved. 

I want to wake up to a "good morning, my favorite person" text. 

I want the last thing I see at night to be a little red heart emoji. 

I want to tell you  I love you 

I love you and your smiles

Your voice even though I’m still learning your language

The way your hands hold things 

A basketball 

Your sisters hand 

When Jennifer thinks about the idea of home, it's more than the idea of physical space. Home is her shelter; she feels safe, protected, and it's kind of like a utopia where she can do anything without judgment (obviously not crimes).

Once, there was a little girl.

She was around 7 years old at the time,

and lived with her mother and father

in a little red house, in a little green forest.

They made chicken soup on their little stove