When Home Begins to Fade

I walked into my room

this evening after a long day at work.

My last day at work.

(It was seasonal work.)

I opened the door and felt lost,

for the dust that settled

didn't smell like me;

the mess it covered felt

foreign.

I had left that room a little girl, a little bit broken,

a little bit lost,

bare-faced with uncertainty and 

quietly drowning because it hurts.

It hurts to grow up.

You leave a bit of you behind

when you pierce the cacoon and 

tear it from

your limbs

so you can fly.

In the last twenty-four hours,

I had learned to fly,

and when I returned to the cacoon of my room, I found

it no longer fit.

I left that room a little girl.

a little bit broken,

a little bit lost, and

bare-faced with uncertainty.

I walked back through

that door a

woman.