A poem about feeling 'homeless' in your heart, despite having a roof over your head.
|When I was little, my sister and I would collapse on the floor when we came home from long trips— |
kissing the carpet,
and yelling with excitement that we were finally home.
We were finally where we belonged;
where we were comfortable.
It's strange to think that since we moved,
I've never felt that connected to anywhere else.
I never found another home.
It's not because of the location,
or the color of the bricks or walls,
or how many rooms or windows there are—
it's because of me.
Ultimately, the change in environment has never been able to compare to the change that has occurred within.
I've changed so much that I just don't belong anywhere anymore.
I can feel it in every room I step in, and in every object my fingers touch:
Everything screams that my presence is wrong.
Even the bed I sleep in every. night. still instructs my pillow to whisper in my ear,
I feel as if I am living on borrowed time;
as if I am anticipating the stroke of midnight every moment of every day,
and then I will be forced to flee once again—
without ever having the time to know, or be known in the first place.