She, Her, Me


She's a nomad, a wanderer, a bohemian love, but she's not sure it was by choice. She chose skateboards over school, she chose parties over GCSEs, she chose other people's homes over her own, and if there was nowhere to go, she chose to wander the streets, and they were her guide. They tried to contain her, and she climbed through the window. They tried to break her and she combusted, but then she flourished. They tried to ignore her, and she sung with freedom and joy. Home was just a house. A house that she apparently belonged to. But she didn't belong to the bricks that built a house, and she didn't belong to others. She was her own belonging, on her own path, and her path had to avoid 'home'. She's a bohemian love, and she's not sure if she had a choice. The screams, the violence, the games, the manipulation, the aggression. The torture, the isolation, the outcast. When one spends her youngest years running away from this so called 'home', this so called 'home' becomes everywhere, it becomes the universe. Home is not contained inside four brick walls, and the constant need to move, explore, pick up and leave becomes a way of life. The only way she knew. And she now loves every second of it. Leaving sparkles of love and hope along the way, kissing lips, touching hands, changing lives, holding children, surfing waves, climbing rocks, exchanging gifts, exchanging knowledge, laughing with wildlife, grasping bodies, all just her way of life. She's a bohemian love and this life chose her. She has grown to love and accept it, as if it were a body part. All of her love, all of my love, all of the world. Just so in love.


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