America Was Never Home

it feels like…

i am half the world away from my apartment and my lover and my ex and my baggage and my struggles and my hopes so i know i am not home. i am in america certainly a citizen of this country but all i want to do is step back on that plane with my daughter to the noise and the mess of morocco which is my challenge and my home.

it’s too easy here. too empty. people are sweeter. they are more respectful to your personal space but there is nothing but ease and comfort and that car and all these rules. everything is illegal here. everything. the door to this country is shut and i can’t open it. and i don’t want to.

i like to say in a fight that i can get on that plane and go back and give the middle finger to the stupid man i am with but in truth i am not getting on this plane again to the states for a very long time. i have no parachute and no easy out. i am going to have to find another exit out from the times that get me down.

i am trying to say that even if i can’t go home even if i don’t know where home is offically and cleanly i know i am stepping in to places where i think i have no history until i find one.


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