Home, Crap, Home

I
There is a little car,
it can get us pretty far,
300+ miles, to not be exact,
somehow that thing,
it stays in tact.

II
The car's now parked next
to the lawn,
that's pretty,
but half overgrown,
unlike the piles of itchy hand-me-downs.
We still have nothing of our own.

III
I close my eyes, imagine
her dressed in lilacs
and daffodils,
I awaken, remembering
her legs are prickly,
and bare.
With scratches,
from excessive irritations.

IV
Her dress is covered in lilacs
and daffodils,
she is somewhere, dreaming,
she is anywhere but here.
She has her own footstool.
She has her own name.

V
Her face is painted pale,
faded blue, her teeth-
red bricks with bloody
mortar.
No one ever visits her.
Moldy footprints on the step,
-on their way out.
Well, now, here-
We are.
Home, crap, home.