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I want to go back home—

To bologna sandwiches assembled sloppily
Between two slices of cheap white bread
And slathered with so much mustard
It leaks out the side,
Leaving a stain on my crisp T-shirt.

To carefree summer days spent playing
With friends under a beating sun, laughing—
The aroma of lilacs on the breeze,
And the cool tickle of grass against my feet
As my imagination runs free.

To the big, white farmhouse
That no longer exists —
its crumbling foundation,
Its constant aroma of fresh-sawn wood,
And sheetrock dust hanging in the air.

To the sweet innocence of a child’s mind
When Mother makes everything better.
None of that was real.
Mother knew then, as I know now,
That home is a lie.

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