free roam, home.

All the WhatsApp messages I have received from my mum

have always consist of the line:

 "When are you coming home girl?"

Yes, Ma I am coming home.

I am coming home with tired limps of walking endless streets,

and a mind loading of more knowledge.

But how do I explain to you, Ma?

That I’m not just outside playing,

but constantly learning.

That this hunger in me, it empties my gastric and

leaves me craving.

Of more places to go,

more ideas to grow,

and more art to show.

Ma, I know beneath these five words are just

“love love love love and more love”

Being yellow skinned, it’s kind of a shame to recite these words, isn it? 

A shame to give a kiss on the cheek.

A shame to hold your hand in public.

So you resort to these five words.

And though with resentment I read,

I answer with

“yes Ma, I’m coming home”

It actually equates to

“ I’ve received your love, Ma”

But I can’t deny home isn really a thing for me.

Not unless, it's a home of your love for me.

The house holds negativity my tiny body don't have the power to change,

glued like your ashamed love for me.

It glued on bodies trapped bound to traditions.

It glued on to egos and listening to authorities.

I don’t hate coming home Ma, please don’t be mistaken.

I do love home, your love.

I do love home, a place to feed my hunger 

Unapologetically &

Unashamed.

Free of who I could be.