The Bag Handle

• Writing from our talented client, Elizabeth

I clutch my bag's handle like it's life's worth.
And, becomes a pillow that gives me dreams of escape
from reality's nightmare of being homeless.

Having no personal windows to look out from.
To see and think in a world's safe perspective.

No doors to lock to receive privacy granted.

Normal is imperial, and far away, and a marriage,
like the stolen pride when no longer an opportunity in having the experience of housekeeping.

Home is where the heart is,
And, the heart needs shielding like being in a home.

I knock on every door,
desperately wishing I had my own.

No shelter midst the heart's, mind's and soul's storms,
the biting air and sedating heat of the sun.
It's best just to continue to sleep and stay unharmed.

Good friends are the friendly folks suffering the same, that are informing me how to remain sane.

Nothing to familiarise with when looking into the mirrors, but a suffering soul.

Dissociation is an understatement.

Choices don't exist, like making my own bed.

The nicest people suffer the most.

And, continuing to clutch my bag's handle while I sleep.