Let's go home, you say,
But I reply, let's not.
So we stay one more day.

We, you start like it means something, should be home by now. We're oh-so late.
Oh, I say, I guess we are.
We follow the Southern Star home.

Home is burnt the ground; there's only ash and rubble left.
Oh, I say, I guess we're late, but you're crying and can't hear me,
Where to now?

You've always like shiny lights so we go to the city.
Father, you say, would have been more responsible than to let us come here.
I'm not Father.

We leave the city on the second day; pretty boys thought you were a hooker.
Mother, you say, would have never allowed this to happen.
I'm not Mother.

We were pampered children.
Mother made us breakfast in bed on Sunday and Father always brought us gifts.
We have no clue how to survive on our own.

The city, you smile optimistically, wasn't so bad -
Only because there's no where else to go.
However, I must disagree; I can feel the smog in my throat again, already

(Sucks like hell that we have to go back.
Although, I must admit,
A roof is roof : a house is a house.)

Cheap hotels in Red Light Districts aren't the most reputable place to rest;
We just can't afford anything else.
A hooker tries to pick you up; I laugh.

There's too much going on outside so we're both awake.
Sing me a lullaby, you whisper.
It's twelve at night, I say, so no; have a whore sing you to sleep.

You're a bitter little girl.
I was joking.
You moan, bitterly, go apologized to a whore.

Ever since we came you kept that knife Daddy gave you under your pillow.
You, I say, are going to cut your ear off one of these days,
Although, that's no laughing matter.

I get us some better accommodation from an old friend who's in town; he's royal.
And, might I add, a whore.
But I don't because I can't tell you that; my secret.

(Broken glass, torn sheets and shattered values.
He mocks my stomach scar and the fact—
Oh shit, I caved.)

Sleeping in my bed, I whisper in the morning, I really thought you had outgrown that.
Shut, you say, the hell up and let me sleep.
I obey.

A boy with cheap pink hair calls you 'Mary Jane' but you don't know what that means.
I do so I borrowed your knife while you aren't looking.
I leave him a reminder 'remember your manners' in scars on his stomach.

(Mary Jane, n.,
Common whores with unrealistic morals; believes she'll be something more.
Harlequin.)

My friend, the royal, is talking to you and you ask how I know him.
We're friends, he says, from a very, very long time ago.
You ask if it were in a place very, very far away.

(I laugh to myself,
He smirks.
Would it be inappropriate to tell you that it was on your bed?)

Cheap, pink boy is one of Royal Boy's whores.
Should have
Fucking known.

Royal Boy sits down to breakfasts with us and I tell him to fuck off, he's not invited.
You say he can stay.
It's suspicious; especially when you two sit a little too close.

You laugh at all his jokes, which is a task because Royal is just not funny at all.
He's stupid.
Then again, you always love the stupid types (me, him, mother, and father.)

I catch you two making out behind the hotel,
That, I say to him,
Was not a good idea.

For you, I don't slit his throat.
However I do demand nine hundred dollars
and a luxury suite.

If, you say, you wish to act like my mother, I don't mind; just acknowledge.
I, I say, am neither you're mother nor father nor anything; nothing.
You glare, liar.

I need to get out of here, I groan over dinner.
You heard there was nice, quaint village in the middle of the north forest.
We plan to make Prince Boy take us there.

My carriages, he says, don't go into the north forests.
You'll have to walk.
So we do.

This, I think after an hour, was not a good idea.
I'm not that good at surviving in harsh, forest-like, unforgiving habitats.
I'll take a cheap, moldy hotel any day.

(That hotel room was not home but you were treating it as such,
I do not need a home
However I do need non-alcoholic liquids.)

The village is a boring place.
You get me to agree to go back to the hotel within the hour.
The lemonade was pretty good though.

This, I point out one day in the summer, is not home; you know that, right?
It is getting cozy, isn't it? you smirk.
I scold, no -- no it's not.

Maybe.
A little.
Only because I have you.

(I'll never, ever admit it.)

-


-

On home, hookers and your sister falling for the boy you screwed on her bed.

(Leaving home, returning home, finding home, accepting home.)

-