Home

I remember what it was like to grow up in a home.

No matter where I was,

Who I was with,

I always had a safe place to be.

I place where I belonged

Home.

A silly word.

A silly feeling.

A watered down expression that means nothing if you have no where else to go.

It hurts knowing that where I grew,

where I cried, bled, and held tight to hopes and dreams,

has turned into nothing but a structure.

A living space for despair and toxicity.

All the heat has left the house -

all the joy and comfort.

Gone.

Sucked out the front door.

Now, evil walks in and out, and it does not care about anyone but itself.

Home.

That's my home.

A deep dark hole, decorated with fairy lights and vanilla scented candles to mask the smell of decay.

It's not cute anymore,

to have a home become a cold, dark tomb;

to scream at loved ones, "This is how it is now! This is how everyone's home is!"

It's not.

Not everyone has a home this sad, lonely and bruised...

Now, I have learned to become my own home.

I am the roof, the front door and windows...

God, this house is cold too.

Maybe it is because I am the only one living here;

or maybe it is the fact that I took nothing with me, when I left the old.

I could invite some people in... host a party to celebrate the independence of me.

Light a fire and let the warm glow fill me -

charge me with peace.

That's my home...

My body,

my mind,

my spirit.

I have less walls, but more breathing space.

When I sit alone, I am home.

When am with you, I am home.

When I am driving, I am home.

When I am walking, running, crying, being... I am home.

And no one can desecrate what I am -

the home I am.