I lost my home when I was three years old.

Thrown out into the streets and the slums; the streets

of loneliness and the slums of sorrow.

The sound of my own innocent cries echo in my head.

Mom, why don’t you and dad love each other anymore?

Dad, why are you buying a new house? That is not my home!

Home is where the heart is.

 

My home was the warm embrace of both my

mother and father. My home was the sound of

their laughs in unison when they played with me.

My home was the five us at the dinner table, united

as a family. My home no longer exists.

 

Home is where the heart is. Yes, home is where the

beat up, fragmented heart is. My heart is split in two, no

my heart is shattered into a million tiny pieces. How will

I ever reassemble them? Home is where the heart is.

 

I am trapped in the center of my dark universe constantly

being pulled from one side to the other.

Your mother lied!

Your father cheated!

Home is where the heart is.

 

As a child….

Music, was my mother.

Books, were my father.

My brothers, were my protectors.

But there was only so much they could do.

They could not stop the tsunami tides that

drowned my eyes when I was alone.

 

No, they could not!

Stop!

Me from becoming a young adult.

They could not stop me from

becoming aware of the terrible circumstances.

They could not stop me from seeing the truth.

 

The truth is that home is not where the heart is.

Unless that heart is complete. Unless the shattered

pieces of my heart come together.

But even I know that those pieces are too

broken to ever unite again.

Home is where the heart is.

 

But what hurts the most, is not my own pain.

It is the way that they loathe each other, it is

the way that after twelve years, the hate has

only gotten stronger. It is the way that they have

wasted their lives shattering their own

hearts into a million pieces.

 

I grew up condemning marriage.

(Thanks to them)

Because I realized that vows are merely lies.

I grew up despising the value of money.

Because it seems to be the root of our issues

and I see that maybe if we had more, there would

be less hate and less fighting.

 

Now I wait to find some sort of savior.

But how can one save a girl who is already lost?

If I could, I would run home. If I could I

would fall into the arms of my mother and father. But I

cannot. It is too late. For I no longer have a home.

I now only have two empty houses that will fall apart

and shatter at any second.