Home.

When she was growing, home was the dark of her mother's womb
The protection in her voice.
It was the firm press of her sisters hands
And the whispered tales of dolls and games.
When she was growing, home was always there.
When she was born, home was the vacant stare in her mother's eyes,
The shouts of men that would come and go.
It was the tangle of her sisters fingers and a shaken promise of safety.
It was a frilly white dressed sticky with sugar and it was clinging onto lost innocence.
Home was the sticky lipgloss she and her friends smeared on inexperienced lips,
hoping to catch the eyes of a middle school boy.
It was the soccer fields that made her fly and the teammates that made her worth something.
Home was not knowing when her mom would stumble in,
Or what would be coursing through her veins, taking her higher with each step.
When she was born, home was broken.
When she was grown, home was the streets, and the filthy stares of filthier men.
It was the pipe she clutched at the end of each night.
It was the drug that made her pick at her skin.
When she was grown, home was the memories,
and the tombstone of her sister taken down in a drive-by shooting.
It was the press of a mattress against her back,
And a sting of cash pressed into ashamed hand.
When she was grown, home was ruthless.
When she finally died, home was welcome.
It was two feet wide and six feet deep.
Home was crawling with worms and maggots.
It was all she'd ever need.
When she finally died, home was under a marble slab,
And a loving phrase of "Another Angel Gone Too Soon."
And pressed firmly between her mom and her sister.
When she finally died, home was a relief.