Pilgrimage

My uber driver says I’m lucky I was saved
and I almost bite my tongue off trying to swallow my guilt. 

Perspective has pillaged my shrine of sorrow and I’m not sure how to keep worshiping. 
Here I am more prodigal son than displaced daughter.
Home is a borderless country where my grief fights for an altar. 
Secretly I want it to lose. 
But I know if I have any hope of surviving, I have to witness the wound.