I miss the ground under my feet belonging to me. I remember it carrying me. I remember not doubting that it would. I miss the air in my lungs being mine to keep and to let go of. In and out. Mine. I miss the sun-shinings smelting in the top layers of my skin and staying there because they belonged. The sun was a part of my skin then. I was part of the light, part of the earth, part of the air. Nothing left me that wasn't mine first. It came to me because I owned it. The freedom. The keys to the Kingdom. I own nothing now. I am poorer than ever I thought possible. Only what is already in me is mine. The earth gives me nothing. The sun doesn't come. The air is foreign. I am very far from home. from 'Once' in Homeland
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August 2024
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