I Have a House, Not a Home

When people speak of Home,

They often talk about the place they live –

The house just outside the city,

Comfortable and new,

Perfect for kids.

When people speak of Home,

They often talk about their family –

The people who love and cherish them,

The ones who hold them, kiss them,

And offer them unconditional support.

When they think of Home,

They feel safe and warm.

They know they have somewhere to live,

Someone to love,

And a family they can rely on.

For me, Home is a very different thing.

Home is an ever-changing place –

Year after year, being uprooted and dragged to

Different streets,

Different suburbs,

Different cities;

All in pursuit of finding a sunnier patch of ground to call our own.

Home is where I feel alone –

Where my voice remains unheard,

No matter how loud I speak.

Where I stay locked away in silence,

Rejected for being me.

Home is filled with dysfunction –

A father consumed by narcissism, driven by rage and his selfish needs.

A mother consumed by addiction, the alcohol numbing all of her fears.

A sibling consumed by greed, obsessed with money, possessions and how they're perceived.

And then there's me…

Consumed by grief at the loss of something I've never even owned,

The loss of that picture-perfect place that many others call a Home.