This is not your home.
Home is not a cleansing breath on the sun deck on your summer rental.
Home is not a snapshot of the tide lapping at your Seafoam Sparkle pedicure.
Home is not a cold beer on your sun-cracked lips, skin tight with saltwater, hair starched with salt.
Home is a fingernail you split when you slapped your trunk shut, six plastic bags looped around your elbow.
Home is an alarm so harsh you stand in the shower massaging your jaw open.
