By Georgina Beeby
Following the cracks along the old, chipped glass
i compare the lines to the veins on my skin ever present, but equally as thin – as my mother chats about a thousand things,
and i overthink the way that i sit –
the way that i talk,
the way that i breathe,
trying to disguise the thousand versions of me
that they’ve never seen. And if home is the same place as being known, then, i suppose, i’ll find it online, where i’ll admit to my crimes, my “i like girls the way they should be liked by guys,”
or i’ll find it in others, with similar minds, and eventually i,
just maybe,
just might, find home in the arms of another.