I used to think home was an 

Address, 

A neat little box on a map, 

A collection of bricks that 

Keep the rain from drowning us. 

But I've learned that sometimes 

The roof caves in even while 

It's still standing. 

Some walls hold you. 

Others bury you. 

​

Home is not a place. 

Its a version of me I keep

wandering back to in the dark– 

A girl with softer hands and wide, 

Unbroken eyes, 

A girl who still believed that walls couldn't lie

And ceilings didn't fall. 

I wonder if she still exists 

Somewhere between the cracks in my ribs, 

Or if she's packed her bags and 

Vanished quietly without saying goodbye. 

​

Some days, 

Home feels like a ghost town– 

Rooms echoing with footsteps 

That no longer belong to me, 

Portraits fading where 

Faces once bloomed, 

Windows staring like unblinking eyes, 

Demanding answers on why 

They were left to collect dust.

Other days, 

Home is a person I once loved. 

I built entire cities in their laugh, 

Tiled my floors with their promises, 

Planted gardens in their silence. 

And when they left, 

I stood barefoot in the ruins,

Holding pieces of a foundation 

​

I couldn’t rebuild alone. 

Maybe home was never walls, 

Maybe it's not a place, 

Or a person, 

Or a promise carved into someone else's spine. 

Maybe home is that fragile moment Right before you lose everything– The last inhale 

Before the storm breaks the glass The last flicker 

Before the blackout swallows the room The last breath 

Before the water closes over your head 

And maybe that's the tragedy… Not that I'm lost, 

But that I've been circling 

The same ruins for years, 

Mistaking echoes for directions, pressing my ear to closed doors Hoping to hear my own name. 

Maybe home was never missing. Maybe I was.