don’t go home

Written by Emma Flynn
Art by Les Anderson


here. with me; there is a reflection on the lake of something that reminds me of you. i have watched too many men rip themselves apart for words on lips, for stains on cheeks; stay where you are small and you are kind and you taste like salt and earth and skin.


don’t go home. your hand is nice in mine— is it worth it to peel off your skin for me? to dip your fingers in my hair and drink up the sky? i’ll steal you the moon, you say, but i don’t want the moon. i only want you.

don’t go home.

the sun is too hot, too bold, too handsome and proud and it scatters your back with dots that might be cancer and i think of how i would follow you into the dark. i want to cradle your neck in my hands, to melt into the sand, to draw you a map of my body so that you may know how it burns for you.

stay. please.

linger a while longer where the air is sweet. i’ll slip into your smile and live between the gaps in your teeth and you’ll carry me with you wherever you go. or we’ll head east to the mountains and grow into trees with entwined roots and brushing branches and i’ll share the sunlight with you again.

whatever you want. just stay.

stay. stay. don’t go home. you are my home.