India

Inside me is a topography 

Of all the people I call places. 

Maps and grids of men women, 

and imaginary things 

that creates the largest 

of mountain peak 

to the most diminutive 

little street light alley. 

Some are picturesque and 

bleeds a thousand memories, 

others are sinkholes with 

pink vapors that ruins 

all things growing and healthy.

I am decaying both 

rapidly and slowly. 

The very feet that 

traveled, discovered, named, 

and eventually conquered me.

Where outsiders that wanted more 

than my roots and blood into their veins 

but the very air that sings into my lungs. 

I am no longer my own, but I am also

never alone, but never at home. 

But for that fact, 

I guess all maps on a wall are also 

places the people never call home.