One-Star Motel.

It opens with a creak

And the hinges stick halfway through it’s swing.

The room reeked of smoke,

If one investigated the back of the door, they could find the shadow of a once-prominent plea

Intended to prohibit such a sweetly cancerous stench

From the room.

One could question how often the carpet was cleaned,

Pray the spill stains was simply beer

Had on a particularly lonely night.

One might choose not to soak themselves in the dreadfully yellowed tub,

Or dare inspect the sad double bed for bugs.

But sometimes,

Someone must allow themselves to carelessly

Flop onto the musty duvet,

Waiting for their brain to settle into itself;

There must be someone who scrubs their faces in the mouldy sink,

Looking up to the dusty mirror with an experienced sigh.

There must be someone

Who breathes in this heavy suspicion

As if to claim

This Is Home.