300.4 (F34.1)

I feel her come home, know it before
knuckles tap tap tap on my front door.
She is laced in cobwebs, laced in stickiness
that I have walked through before, and could

never brush off. She comes home
and she is adorned in shadows, in a way
I never could, despite the black clothes
I put on to mourn my human experience. Knocking
on my front door, she is persistent, she is tired,

and she is home, and she is
mad at me, and everyone is mad

at me, and I am looking
through the peephole that feels more
like a mirror. We must
have drowned; I see her ballooned body
through the fisheye and I am gasping
again. I feel her come home

again, and she is relentless. Her arms
stretch like tendrils choking its own flower,
and I open the door, and I am 
in her arms
again, and somehow, I have never 
been more at home.