#werewolfwrites

[werewolf-morgue]

I’ve never had a parental figure. I became the mother and the father, the sun and the moon. There is no place to call my home and I fear for the future. I want it to be better, and I will try. That’s the meaning of life. At least mine.

[werewolf-morgue]

I find myself missing home. But home hurts. It’s heart beats, barely. Though I can’t remember if it was more lively in the past or always slow and rhythmic. There’s a thick fog wafting through the halls and all around town. The sort of fog that clings to you, begs you to stay put. But you don’t. And it makes you miss it. There’s a comfort to being miserable when it’s all you knew. I miss bumming cigarettes and vapes from my friends. I miss walking around town after curfew. I miss the experiences I had and how I felt in those moments.

People move on. Life cannot be the same forever after all. You grow and change and adapt. Time moves forward no matter how hard you try and fight it. It’s cruel, really. I wish I could’ve stayed young forever. Given my home infinite chances to be better. I don’t think they would’ve done well no matter how much time they had.

But I too have left it behind. Changed my name, moved to a new city. There’s hope and opportunity around every corner. And then I realize. Yes, this is home now. I will make new friends. Feel the sun on my skin. Have late night gas station runs. Make brand new experiences and feel good in the moment. I will treat myself better and heal.