Disillusioned

I’m looking for something - can you help me?

I’ve heard it tastes like the most aromatic apple pie

And melts the moment it hits your tongue,

Tickling your taste buds with familiarity and warmth.

But my mouth remembers disintegrating pills,

With lighter notes of vomit and salt.

My teeth instinctively gnash, not chew.

I don’t recall a comforting heat

That bakes my senses into a lazy smile,

But a nauseating numbness that freezes my brain.

Have you tasted it?

I’ve heard it sounds like a breathless, wheezing laugh,

Good-natured insults, and shameless secrets.

A soft, resonating lullaby you repeat to sleep.

But my ears remember breaking glass,

And piercing screams of dissapointment and imperfection

That I am afraid will reverberate inside of me forever.

The memories are loud,

And fill my head with either a dissociative hissing sound

Or a ghostly moan that invokes an adrenaline-packed desperation

To find somewhere safe to hide.

Does it sound familiar to you?

I’ve heard it’s a subtle, unique perfume

That is ultimately unforgettable.

A bouquet of timelessness that you can bury your face in.

But my nose remembers the overpowering scent of

Hospital grade disinfectants

And a confusingly terrifying smell of cold leather and

Cigarette smoke.

Have you smelled it?

I’ve heard it feels like the secure embrace of well-worn blankets

Tucked tightly underneath of you.

A softness that soothes, but that somehow you could also wear into battle:

Scratchy styrofoam swords peeking out of a squishy couch cushion fort.

But my fingers remember gripping armrests at two in the morning

While I forced myself to watch horror movies alone,

Preferring the scream queens' wails of fear to my own soundless cries

As I bowed before an existential emptiness that pressed against my chest –

The most sincere and lonely silence I have ever experienced.

Have you felt it?

I’m looking into one last lead:

I’ve heard I can find it “where the heart is.”

I read it’s nestled underneath a steady beating,

A beautifully reliable place

Filled with a pure, infantile peace.

I’ve always interpreted that saying differently.

In my own limited experience,

I’ve noted that the heart is even less reliable than the senses:

It races, tumbles, stutters, and even stops on a whim.

I prefer this reality, honestly,

And I’ve decided that,

For now,

I will make my bed in chaos

And wait for “Home” to find me.