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Poetic Prose 3.

Home…

The word scares me.

The idea of it makes me leap with joy.

But the reality I lived through never made me feel like it truly existed.

Was I the problem?

Why are the footsteps near my door so loud?

I did something wrong…

What was it?

I have to remember. Before they get to me…

People became home.

They built it up.

And tore it down. Idolized in a way they could never live up to.

Wrecked and in smoke.

And yet… Time and time again, I crave it.

I turned Bengaluru into my home.

I turned Savannah into my home.

I turned Los Angeles into my home.

And watched them fade away. Taken from me. Pain. Searing.

And in the vacuum… One thing became clear. Home… Was I. And is Him.

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