The Lie-in, The B*tch and The Floordrobe

“Home” right now is a spare ‘oom.

I am packing one up and again I am on the move.

SWF

w/

GSOH

WLTM

LTRoom

On the dot.coms and the handheld apps,

I find myself tempted to lie and say I am already thirty, though, there is a tab open on my computer planning that particular party.

I realise this ad is the first opportunity I have taken to categorise myself. Queer.

I spend time wondering why, knowing that it is only fear.

Privilege has many layers. I have privilege in the budget I have for an oom.

Not vast, but not mice, boondocks and broken locks.

Privilege in the MacBook I open for viewings on Zoom.

Yesterday, I felt my privilege on a long train home, ticketless & tired.

An inspectors decision to feign annoyance and just walk on.

No penalty, for me.

White, Heteronormative “passing” through.

I slip by unnoticed, unchallenged – most of the time.

A privilege.

Today at home-home, visiting family. I find myself personally affronted by flakey wifi.

Dated cutlery.

Off-brand Mayonnaise.

Teenage and intolerant.

Upon leaving, I return to the liminal space of seeking.

Realising..

Home for me is my body. Like a snail with limbs & facial features.

At the age when threads of connection can be easily severed.

At the stage when no roots have been sunk quite deeply enough.

My body is a home.

My body is a constant.

My body is work.

In the morning with a primordial yawn I open the door.

I blow the cobwebs out of my corners with breath

& throw open the shutters with a twist of my torso.

I spring clean with a lean.

Alternatively, when I have let my home get messy

I languish in lethargy.

I know,

To feel my body is a safe place, a home, is the ultimate privilege.

One that I commit to never take for granted.

Even when my roots are more firmly planted.