for all its neatness, the stacked jeans,
the piano and piano
music,
for all the glittering kitchen utensils,
the paintings on the
walls,
the books on the book shelf,
the computer and keyboard,
even with the book on the bed,
this place, this home ,
this sanctuary,
exudes loneliness
and isolation like a self-imposed prison
to which she had times
and for special
people,
invites visitors who
no matter
how often she clicks
her heals
or chants "there's no place like home"
they leave and she
while protected behind
the mighty walls of this fortress
finds herself alone,
defending her most
vulnerable self
against real or imagined threats,
having too few
implements of war
with which to do so,
a lone defender in a
lonely world
filled with things
she loves,
but not those people
or that person
she most needs to
share it with,
no one to watch her
back,
no one to make sure she's safe.
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