The loneliest sweet potato.

13 June

I could become a ghost in this town if I stay. If I don’t leave, I think I will.

Home has never betrayed me or lied to my face. Home is outgrowing the people around you. Home is coriander. Home is a hug from a distant relative wearing too much perfume. Home is time standing still.

I see adults with hundred-acre hearts packing away their dreams into storage, creating lives from what fits. The people in my home like this pulsating city. No one seems to notice the sticky air or how the walls have a way of slicing you down. There is no room in this house for me to dance around in this body. In my mind, I must have left home a thousand times.

Me, I am the loneliest sweet potato. I could never bring myself to buy a bird, keep fireflies, or watch penguins through glass. I wanted to open jars, break barriers, ask questions and smash windows; just so I could watch them all float amongst the stars. I know what it’s like to have the lid closed on you.

A woman with coarse hair and breathtaking skin, my Mother occupies her Sunday mornings wiping lipstick stains off a Holy chalice. Mum quotes refrigerator magnets and cannot cook. Sometimes I think she is colour-blind. I want to believe Mum loves me more than she loves being right. She is an artist, painting pictures of the life I will lead as a radiant mother. My father desperately tries to recreate moments he cannot return to, forgetting that growing up is a double-edged sword. Maybe that is why I haven’t left yet. Dad is the pushes and pulls of the ocean; with him, I could tie my hands behind my back and dive headfirst into darkest waters; he says my name, and I skim like a rock. Leaving home means leaving him.

In our home, we talk about our days before we talk about our dreams, and maybe that is why I write so much. I fall asleep the same way I fall in love. It’s 11:04 pm on my clock, and outside is seductively dark. The sky is starless — my world, unmoving. My mind is an uproar of wishful thinking and reminiscences, all coming into one story, obscuring my imagination and darting back into reality. My attention glides over the atmosphere, frightened that no matter how many houses I may live in, they will never be home.

Someday I will realise that I fade with each moment I stay.

I could become a ghost in this town if I stay; when I leave, I leave so many ghosts behind.