Break
So, I’m home for winter break
and trying not to break
because I thought I could break away from my problems, my chains—
but my wrists break instead of the shackles.
I don’t want to be home—
I came back, and no one was home.
Just like the week before,
and the month before,
and the year before.
And when I think more,
I can’t remember the last time anyone was home.
I’m starting to think
that I don’t have any home mates.
Not housemates, not roommates—
they’re here, but they aren’t home.
Because home to me isn’t here.
It’s somewhere between love and fear,
somewhere between far and near,
somewhere I don’t have to hear from any of you—
about how I’m overreacting
and unprepared
and indecisive
and just, scared.
I know that.
That’s why I bought new bedding and towels and hangers.
That’s why I spent four months with so-called world changers—
just to feel like I’m no longer in danger.
The people in this house can’t see
I’m building a home somewhere else.
That’s why I came home and didn’t see them anywhere.
Because most days, home is wherever they’re not.
But I need them like water—
only, I can’t swim.
I’ll die with them and without them.
I had a semester-long break.
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