This is (not) home.
What a privilege it is to not dread coming home
Knowing there's food on the table
Or at least a plate saved for you
Or not hear shouting before you even step foot in the yard
Or not knowing the feeling of being more alone in your own home than your own mind
Maybe you'll have siblings and they'll spill their hobbies all over the living room floor
A bulletproof mosaic of their joys
Or not fearing every breath you take knowing anything could trigger another trigger
Or knowing someone will ask you about your day
Good or bad
And they'll listen
God, they'll listen
Knowing there's an I love you in every smile
And not an I hate you in every sigh
And you don't fear any other emotion or expression of "love;"
What a privilege it is that you've never questioned it's definition
Coming home
There's a warmth in the air
Whether that be a candle melting your worries away
Or the arms of the person you love most
You hug them tight knowing your anxiety is nothing more than a mere puddle that will soon evaporate
There's a fire, yet you're able to take a deep breath
Knowing it's not the smoke of dust, neglect, and cigarettes
but rather the fire in our cores from hearty laughs and cackles that seem to fade too soon
And the thought of running away was only an 80's invention
Or only in case of some kind of emergency
Not a means to abandon ship with a to-go bag with no place to go
This is home.
where the walls don't echo all your insecurities and chant new ones you didn't know you had
where there are no projections on the ceiling of every mistake you've ever made that you've learned to count instead of sheep
No ghosts of the ones that left
No piles of forgotten things
No holes in the walls and bloody knuckles
No doubt that you are loved
So you walk through the door
And ditch any upset you felt, for it never really mattered anyway
And you close the door
And smile, lock out the world behind, and welcome the one in front of you