I can’t remember the last time I was so desperate for home.
I miss it terribly.
I’m so tired of this place. These people exhaust me.
I feel claustrophobic here, caged even;
I can’t breathe properly; I feel like I’m being smothered.
I yearn for the place that feels like home;
A place where I can wake up early and fall asleep late,
A place where I can feel beautiful with my hair up and no make-up on,
A place where I can forget to behave and not have to worry about being scolded,
A place where I never feel judged for being a little bit crazy or for laughing too loud.
A place that doesn’t remind me of what a prison must feel like;
Not here, that’s for certain.
But this other place, it is sometimes curious.
Curious because it is so easy, too comfortable; should it be this simple?
There’s barely any mystery anymore.
I know the way the floor feels on my bare feet, each of the scratches and markings on the kitchen table.
I know the original colour of the paint behind the frames on the walls and how much brighter the rest of the room was before it faded from the sun’s rays.
I know all of the shadowed hallways and deep corners where I can hide when I need to.
I know exactly the way the light looks when it comes in through the windows.
I know the way it smells, the sounds it makes, the way it feels on my skin.
But perhaps that’s why I love it?
Because I’m afraid of change, because I like that I just know.
I’m not fond of standing waist deep in a pool of murk and confusion,
I prefer the ease and intimacy of a place that I know better than my own face in a mirror.
And so, here I am. Home.
Not a house, really, but a place that I can call home.
Right here: warm, soft, and so familiar.
This is where I belong; this is where I am supposed to be.
Being honest with myself, I know I never doubted it.
Where are we? It doesn’t even matter.
You brush a strand of hair away from my face and I know that this is the home that I love.
I’ll be your home if you’ll be mine.