Home
Mom, I miss home—
Not the place I live now,
But the place I had in the past.
Sure, you used to hit me,
But somehow, I think I was happier then.
Back when I still had a sense of childlike innocence.
Your blows only stung for a moment.
Now, the hits have turned to yelling,
Words that linger long after they’re said.
If I had to choose, I’d take the cable cord again—
The crack against my skin,
At least then, the pain was real,
Tangible.
This mental war is different,
A game I never learned to play.
The bruises fade,
But your words carve wounds I can’t heal.
Mom, I miss home.
But I wonder—
Did I ever really have one?
Copyright © Ameirah Rivers | Year Posted 2025
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