Home

Today I haven’t left my house, but I will soon.
Some never leave their home, some never call a place home.
Four walls, a door, floor, and a roof.Concrete strong, wood soft.
Warm on the inside with a cold outside night, for most that’s what they call home.
But for me home isn’t a house, or a buildinding, or even a place.
For me home is somewhere i can laugh, tears filling my eyes as i cant breath, the paintings laughing with me , dropping on the ground because of something stupid i find funny.
Home is somewhere I can place my head on their walls and cry, salty water rolling down my cheeks as they hold me up from falling into nothing, I bury my head in the crook where the walls meet, I feel safe and heard.
They won’t judge me no matter whatever or whoever is making me cry even if it’s the house itself.
Home is a place where I can scream my secrets at the top of my lungs to all the walls and they would listen, keeping them safe, the doors locked as i bang angrily against them.
For me home is the first place I go when I get good information, when I am proud of myself. Home for me always knows what to say, they always know what to do even if they’re falling apart to build me up.
For me home is beautiful, its walls hung with memories and its off white trim along the side.
Its cracked paint on the doors, the color of the cold orange floors below my feet always there to catch me when i step, the sent of it filling my chest every time i enter after being away, the hole in the wall from my fist the day my great uncle died but it forgave me, the scratches on the door from the dog running into it every time someone would leave, the flickering light in the hallway making it feel like a horror movie some nights, the windows all around letting the light flow in drowning out the cold, the same windows letting in an emptiness when the sun leaves the sky and all there is, is darkness.
The rust on the door frames, the brick on the outside that’s rough to the touch.
The indecisiveness of deciding its style from within and outside, the broken water pipes that creek when you turn the faucet on.
The broken locks on the doors from the past owners that cause the house to hurt but still let people in, the way it looks sharp as you pull up onto the cracked driveway but it’s soft on the inside.
The fact that it’s just home, not A home; but my home.
For me I will alway love home.
Even when the heater doesn’t work.
Even as it falls apart in the wind.
Even when the windows get stuck in the cold.
Even as it yells and asks me to leave.
Even when I move out, and it becomes a ghost of a place.
Even when I feel like it’s not MY home anymore.
But It will always be
For me, home is her.