I am Helen of Troy

My home is somewhere in an airport, I think. It's traveling, my sense of home. It has already packed its things and dropped a dramamine because of nausea, nauesa, naseua. It's uncomfortable with the new idea of self. It wants to hunker down, give up, and fall in love with the first city it sees,
but my sense of home is a wanderer. And she Hates commitment.

So, Portland, there you are. You look more like a ghosttown with the bare branches and shallow pools. Lewis and Clark at night wasn't even frightening. Five in the morning, you are dead.

I locked myself out of my house last night. I stood on the porch for ten minutes figuring it out.
Yep, I did. I slept for an hour and a half in the purple Honda and called my mom.
The government calls me an adult?

I hate being Helen of Troy, in love with two warring factions. I used to privately support the Achaeans, but I am torn. Illusion never changed into something real.
I have the power to pack up and leave, or I had the power. I left. I'll keep leaving if you're lucky.
I can't stand between you.

I've got an agenda.