Love and Home


His hot Smokey breath drifts onto my face and transforms it a vibrant shade of crimson. Hot comfort, like the smell of crisping stale grease that rose to my cheeks from the peeked oven door auntie set ablaze against the icy home we lived.
His wet tongue fills my mouth, comfort food. Mother stuffed us until our forheads were taught, no room left, food from places no one knew with money no one had.
His subtle low humming laughter dances in my ears and creates vibrant images of all of the things I dream of - savage garden, 1999, blaring from the heaters in the floorboards. My childhood awakened.
Then he sheathes me in his hot furry skin and I am lying in my purple room under the rainbow wool blanket great nan made for mother years before she even knew the feel of my father's skin. Magenta and violet, turquoise and the same crimson red as my face from hot breath and hot ovens.
Gaging the sight of this little sun yellow house, shattered windows, plastic bags.. safe. Safe and broken like the fragile hands that hold me with firmness and promises.
The baby shack in the yard where all things were thought aloud and secrets were spilled with no repercussions. His anxious ears and silent mouth. Home and love. Love and home

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