I dug myself a grave I can’t get out of. The more I spend time in here, the more it feels like a home. I’m not used to making homes out of places because I’m a vagabond, I move from one place to another, one person to another. There’s not a space I can recognize as a home. It’s only about time people will mistake my slumber as a lifeless body; rotten flesh. They will start to pour sand over me, and I will love every single grain that comes in contact with my tattered body. With each inch covering my corpse, the more I feel like I belong. I’m no longer an outsider in my own flesh. I can’t wait until I’m covered completely and finally feel like I have a home. Like I’m no longer rootless. Maybe then flowers can grow from my body, and I will live in them eternally.