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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