Considering my job description, you’d think I’d be better at sorting out the truth.
Yes, I’m the id to the prosecution’s ego.
Yes, my heart is permanently stitched to my suit jacket’s sleeve.
No, I don’t know how I feel about being behind the defense bench again.
“Nostalgia” isn’t the right word.
“Sentimental longing” and “wistful affection” don’t match up
With remembering how it felt
To watch the past three years of your life erased
By the weight of the words “forged evidence”.
Flashbacks aren’t fun when they concern pleas of innocence
And closed ears.
Loving a place is difficult
When you spend seven years barred from it.
“Fear” isn’t the right word either-
Though yes, I am afraid.
Anxiety comes with the territory
When each trial is one big thought puzzle after another.
Tightropes have nothing on knowing
Your mistakes can ruin someone else’s life for good.
“Relief” is the closest word I have.
The sunflower that was cut from my chest
Returns to full bloom,
Illuminates the path I’ve carved for my own.
The turnabout rush I’ve learned to crave
Screams out its truth:
I am home, I am home, I am home.