Home is a slipper I step into,
a bathrobe and a cup of tea.
Every floor is warm and every
crack in the ceiling is known.
Home is constant dowhatyouwantto
and feeling so big because it's My House.
After a party I Go Home and after school I
Go Home and whoever else enters is never really
as glad as if we were in Their House.
This is My Room and My Mail and My Driveway.
This is My Bed and My Name and My Dinner on the table.
There is a dog living here and a washing machine and
a mother, a father, a sister, and a cat. We have our own
little boxes but we are a family. We are a family because
all of our pictures are on the stairs.
I wash dishes and do laundry and walk the dog.
I am a daughter who gets clothes and food and is cultured, loved, and
encouraged. I am also a daughter who gets cranky and acts
no possible way I would act with a friend.
This is also a house that has rebelled, that has had sickness,
role changing, sexual deviance, neurosis, and fear.
This is also a house that has seen drugs, nightmares, and endless insomnia.
There are many different kinds of plants in My House. The father and
the daughter both love them. The daughter is now a woman. The daughter is
getting ready to climb out onto the roof and steal away. The daughter is sorry
but the daughter must go. The daughter is very, very sorry.
The daughter is ready.
This is My House and My Room and My Clock and the time is ripe
to peel the skin off this body and let it dance, let it dance.
Texto de Amy Smiley
Foto de Joseph Zsabo.
Conheci esse fotógrafo agora. Muito bacana.
E esse texto cabe perfeitamente agora. Só percebi depois.