Leaving

Our home is decadent in

peeling plaster
and aerosol.

Wood bows beneath the white ants and
reminds us why we will never leave here.

In summer we fan ourselves, tumble ice
cubes between our teeth and

count the days until Christmas.

In winter we toast our hot water bottles and
pray to God in stain glass windows.

I admit I don't write about you enough,

haven't thanked you enough for the full belly,
or puff the magic dragon and colic-filled-nights.

I apologise for trying to scrub
the roots of my birth
from my skin,

they were radiating warmth
I never realised I was leaving.

You weren't the one I was leaving.