“I just want to go home.”

 

“But, you are home. 

This is your bed. 

This is your room.

That is your mirror that is not quite level

with the dripping bathroom sink. 

There is your old wooden door

that creaks ever so slightly when touched. 

This is where so many memories were made, this is where your family is. 

Is it not?”

 

Yes, I suppose this is my house.

This is where I sleep. 

This is where I eat. 

That is my room.
There is my bed. 

But

There is the mirror where I saw angry cuts and mournful bruises

from the people who were supposed to kiss them and make it all better. 

I saw the curly red hair

that made me a soulless, loveless creature to all. 

The mirror that is not level with the sink is where I tried

so, so hard

to scrub away my freckles and bruises, 

because freckles are ugly and bruises draw questions. 

 

That door makes me scared, did you know that?

Do you know the countless times I sat behind that door,

praying and begging

any God that would listen, 

to stop the angry fists and wandering hands from touching me?

Until I learned  

that the old, wooden door was as much a victim to the hands

as I was?

 

Yeah, I guess this is my home. 

I’m not sure I want it to be, though.