a congenial environment.

is there a home for someone like me?


someone who has never had the unattainable. i've been here my whole life, the surroundings are familiar. the train track are only eight miles down the road and to the left, the trees rise above the horizon and make shadows on the sky. the tire swing sits unmoving inches above the ground, yearning for years of dust to be washed away with the laughter of children.

only we aren't children anymore.


this doesn't feel like home, it feels temporary. like something that just prepares you for the real thing. familiarity isn't everything, contentment gets monotonous and i get restless. it's in my bones to know this house, so deeply rooted. sixteen years of the same thing. it's boring, i want change.


i tried to find a home in someones eyes before, i tried to find a home in his lungs, in his arms, in the hollow at the base of his throat. i tried to burrow so deep into his ribcage that he would have to make me believe in love, i think he wanted to give me that. i think he wanted to give me everything i'd ever ask for, but i wasn't good enough for that.
we self-destructed and washed away any hope of belief that i had.





i think my home is in my head, in my mind, in my books.

material possessions and wooden walls or flesh and bone, those aren't my places for peace. when i withdraw  inside my head and when i lose myself in a book, there i find peace. i love to turn the pages and feel what the protagonist feels, i like to swim in the words and live in the story.
i like to sift through my cerebral intellect and see what i can find. to see what i can make, what i can be. i let my dreams flourish and hope sparks everytime i do. hope that someday, i will make my change, that i will be someone.
hope that i will finally find a home that's not inside myself.