My home is the isolated mind.
My fingers reach down and grip the valves of the heart
And squeeze. I make throbbing bruises.
I separate the individual from the crowd.
With me, people either flourish,
Bristle in my grasp,
Or shrivel and shrink like a vine-wrapped flower.
Sometimes, I am welcomed by the human
Like a star on a cloudy night,
A welcome partner of silence.
People move into my home and I am banished by their treatment of the bruises.
I come back sometimes and squat
Until the new owners evict me again.
I am loneliness and I never am alone.