Almost Home

Poems

Madisen Kuhn

• Éditeur: Gallery Books
• Année: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781982121266
• Sujet: Literatura
• Sous-sujet: Mujeres en la poesía

From the Instagram poet and author of the exquisite Please Don't Go Before I Get Better comes a gorgeous poetry and prose collection that explores the meaning of "home" and the profound discovery of finding it within oneself—perfect for fans of Rupi Kaur and Amanda Lovelace. In this stunning third collection from Madisen Kuhn, Madisen eloquently analyzes some of life's universal themes within the framework of a house. Whether it's the garden, the bedroom, or the front porch, Madisen takes you into her own "home, " sharing some of the most intimate parts of her life so that you might also, someday, feel free to share some of yours.Filled with beautiful hand-drawn illustrations from Melody Hansen, this boldly intimate, preternaturally wise, and emotionally candid collection encourages you to consider what home means to you—whether it's in the lush, green-lawned suburbs or a city apartment—and, more importantly, explores how you can find it even when home feels like it's on the far-off horizon.

homeless

i raised myself to be someone who has no roots at all. i did it to myself by never staying put, always jumping from place to place instead of embracing one home. i have no home at all. i am always wandering, always temporary, never knowing how long each stay will last. and i cannot grow as quickly as others when i am pruned. others who have steady sunlight and familiar soil. they have real friends, and a permanent family, and the coffee shop down the street that is always there. i have train tickets, and parking tickets, and parents who take turns making me cry, and google maps to help me navigate short-term return address cities. instead of feeling free, as wandering implies, i feel so incredibly trapped—locked out of a safe space that everyone else spent their adolescence building. mine was built on highways between broken homes. i look at the photos they share and wish someone had taught me how to swim with the tide. i began drifting before i knew what it meant.

repressed

if you are

like me

when you

were young

you were

taught that

tongues

should sleep

safely inside

filtered mouths

not dressed

in honesty

or pleasure

but rather

in delusion

in carefully

memorized

scripts

when

your bones

grow around

these limits

they break

a little

with every

breath

they form

in twisted

patterns

through

knotted

childhoods

into

corrupt

adulthoods

where

we must learn

what it

means to

unravel it all

i am tired

my blood feels thin

within my veins

i’ve never been inside a home

that smells like freshly baked muffins

and acceptance and truth

my walls have always

been made up of bone and grit

the paint peeling from

overhearing so many lies

i’m not sure the voices even notice

the tone of carelessness

that lines their mouths

or that i have spent years trying

to unlearn their brokenness

the toxins that leave

a waxy film over

everything

i am

subjective

i do not feel compassion

for the man who made me

learn what it means to survive

to come out the other side

with wounds that hide under

repressed skin, only to reveal themselves

as silence or black ice caught in

a flash of remembering

i do not wonder what made him this way

think, did his mother hug him enough

when i hear his voice echoing

in nightmares where i cannot scream

and my legs feel like lead

burdened by the weight of all this baggage

a torn-up suitcase

filled with bloodred bricks—

it does not meet the carry-on weight limit

and i cannot unpack it

where do i go from here

there are ladybugs crawling all over my mother’s house

or mayb...