The place where one lives,
where the heart is.
Why would I call that place
home when for eighteen years
it was everything but?
Home is the bearer of bad news —
where it tells you that we can no longer be a family.
The paint chips and the cracks spread
no matter what color
how many coats of paint
we put on the walls,
I will always remember the scars.
Where the place called home fell apart.
Home is the origin for anxiety
where I thought I was okay,
but the universe had something else in mind.
Breathing changing in parallel with the waves.
One hour it’s flowing nicely along the coastline
but the next it decides to crash to the shore
with all its power the moon has given with
one goal in mind:
to drown me.
Home is where truth turns into lies.
One disaster follows right after another.
My body deciding to slowly deteriorate,
die right in front of me,
making daily living a challenge
where no one else will understand,
no matter how hard I try to explain
what it’s like living.
Home is the change
I should have seen coming
but decided to ignore anyway
until it was too late.
There’s a new pathway to go home.
Others merrily trek along, down that road,
while I’m still following the original footsteps
that are slowly fading from existence.
Home is not,
will never be home.
Home suffocated me
until it made me homeless.