Home

"Go home."

Go home, go home, go home.

God, did I fucking want to go home. I wanted to walk across my lawn, open my front door, and feel at home. To feel safe and warm and be at peace.

I wanted so badly to go home.

But as I pushed open the car door and muttered a feeble, "love you" I felt none of it. I felt like shit. I felt like I was walking across the thickest mud, pushing against the heaviest stone and I felt like I'd entered the home of a total stranger. I felt lost and cold and scared.

Chilled to my bones.

Because this wasn't home. Home wasn't leaving after an argument without any form of reconciliation. Home wasn't the bitter after taste a fight left in my mouth. This wasn't home. I'm not home.

I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.

Home was when I was with you. Fuck.

I strode into my room and I closed the door. I closed the world.

I stepped out of my clothes and then my skin and then my entire body.

And I left.

Because it was easier.

I wasn't home, but it was easier.