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Concrete ties

Home is just a notion, an idea, a distant feeling

By Ira HPublished 3 years ago Updated 3 years ago 2 min read
10
Concrete ties
Photo by Harald Arlander on Unsplash

Home is where the heart is

But,

The people around me,

My body,

The space around me

Is not something I can call mine.

All that helps me stay afloat are

The fragments of the eroded stone

That occupy my chest

Surrounded by the flood of emotions

Flowing through my veins;

Red hot anger, grey melancholy and the dim blue of helplessness.

Alas, they turn into shrapnel

Digging deeper like anchors

As my breath turns slower

Until, any fight that resides within to keep me centred

Disappears with every breath I take

---

I.

I hoped to find a home within you

Build something we could always come back to

Your smile having the potential to wear off a long day

Giving me respite for a minute

Or two.

But now I know,

I am just a badge of honour,

Tokenised

Yet lacking any reverence given to trophies.

Unlike something you earned,

That you cherish.

Although I know,

I had no say

It does not change that I am trapped here playing house

Day in and out.

Waiting for the seconds to perish.

Pinned under the arms of a spouse

As the hopes of finding home within a lover's embrace dwindle

I somehow espouse

That prison is also a room while many do not even have

Shelter

---

II.

My body is a temple

I worship it with fervour

But why is it that when it turns ample

They say it has to turn into a home

They cajole,

Tell me that I have been bestowed a gift,

Sometimes they aggrieve, a life for a life

I listen,

I agree.

And all that are left are the echoes of these murmurs within my womb

Hollow like an insincere prayer, spoken without commitment

For unlike having the right to choose my religion,

I have failed in worshipping

Me

---

III.

Marched in to claim their land

Took up arms against our nurturing hands

Saying that they have reclaimed

What is theirs

Yet all I ask is

Can’t my future’s nest

Form a part of the history

Of this place?

But all I feel in response

Are the thorns on the bed I lie on.

I learn to not feel, not hope

Nor have a say

Because after all

Who is listening?

I am just an occupant with no claim to lay.

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