Home is where my love is.
I did not choose this
Correction: did choose this, when I was too young to know worse
Perhaps I still am
Perhaps it was coincidence.
My friends and I congregated in
The hot brown box where we first knew each other
Where we knew in our small-seeming large problems
Demons themselves haunted our souls and the halls
(Thick with the Holy Ghost,
The Christmas room was an enclave)—
And they my friends chose and they kissed
Where others had before them
What I'd feared I would not resist
Bringing lovely home to mother
Or leaving them behind
Cataclysms behind locked doors for new eyes.
But you, you, you
Our staging spaces are variants on the
Same sixteen-year old couches
Same blue carpet
We danced to damn WeSing here
Where we now scrape knowledge and care
Off elbows and arm-fat.

Your mother was spoiled; I heard her complain
Her eldest's treat spends less time with your family than mine
As if she had any right to a son-in-law's time
(Except me: she can ask all she likes
And that's fine.)

--
[In a text message I sent a couple months ago, I described living on-campus in a college dorm as 
"the sort of weird experience of realizing you're living a kind of privileged and cloistered existence, while also not being able to dismiss the emotional stakes of everything going on in everyone's lives (which i think is sort of exemplified in how our more fervently devout friends were really able to see dorm life as spiritual warfare)".

That's partially what this scribble is about.]