#wish i could've gotten mag 200's physical zine bc i want it like embedded into my soul yknow?

[go-to-the-mirror]

Home. Such a simple word. Home — not house, not dwelling, not residence or address — [...] not domicile or flat or lodging or abode or apartment or property or accommodation. Home. A structure of brick or wood or concrete or canvas. A box in which you pack yourself away when the long day is done. A book neatly closed and placed snugly on a shelf. There's no place like home. An Englishman's home is his castle. Home is where the heart is.

This house says my name like an elegy Oh my, oh my Echoing where my ghosts all used to be Oh my, oh my

there was a house in pennsylvania with a ghost in the walls (an unloved house can be a certain kind of forever home)

And home is where that heart can be hurt most severely, because within that place of safety, the warm and welcoming embrace of the cramped and well-trod floors whose layout has ingrained itself into your soul, there you are most vulnerable. Your home is an extension of yourself, as much as you will let it be, and the place and the people and the things that form it and fill it are as much a part of you as your blood. As your bile. As your tears.

Home is- Home is where the fucking heart is, but someone ripped out mine.

You just wanted to prove there was one safe place, just one safe place.

There is a place, deep in the heart of fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. It was once a cabin and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite, it is a trap. The land outside is warped and twisted by the touch of those things that feed on your suffering, and behind those rough, wooden planks it seems they cannot reach you. The screams may linger on the distant breeze, and your Eye may wander beyond the curtains from time to time, but you and the one you love are, it seems, safe.

That place is in my bones. That place is in my soul. I can't remember what it looked like.

Stay, the cabin says. Stay within my false defences, cling so close to what you desperately wish to save, and live in shaking fear of the things beyond that may take it from you. Throw another log on the fire and curl up close. There are always more logs for the fire here. This is your home, and here you can be safe, as you putrefy, body and soul.

Won't you stay with me, my darling When this house don't feel like home?

Home

MAG 169 - Fire Escape / "Curses" by The Crane Wives / "a haunting" by mag200 / MAG 169 - Fire Escape / my writing on 2 June 2023 / "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken / MAG 162 - A Cosy Cabin / my writing on 25 June 2023 / MAG 162 - A Cosy Cabin / "Curses" by The Crane Wives