As a child I lived like a tortoise,
my home hitched up on my back, neatly packed away in an overnight bag.
Never belonging, but always moving.
Back and forth, back and forth.
The reality of a joint-custody divorce.
At eighteen, I met a boy who promised me home lived within the two of us.
We lived like little broken people moving toward the same light, bonded by mutual sadness;
hating the same things.
But hate doesn’t make a home.
At twenty-six I packed myself up into the tattered cardboard boxes that I found behind a dumpster. Permanence is fleeting.
But i’m older now, less fragile in my own loneliness.
Accustomed to being on my own.
And maybe, home isn’t ever really tangible.
Not something found in another person.
It’s a feeling within myself that screams:
you belong in this world,