Familiar places, familiar faces, day in and day out.
Familiar paths you take everyday with footsteps that know no doubt.
The same walls, the same bed that engulfs you every night,
The same sense of not belonging, though gratitude holds you tight.
The warmth on cold winter nights that leaves you still feeling cold,
The blanket you wrap around yourself which is a hundred years old,
The sofa, the kitchen, the dining table and the hall,
The corners, the memories that haunt you yet leave you feeling un-whole.
The ability to walk out forever and never think of looking back,
The un-want of belongings you can leave behind in a stack,
Nothing’s yours, it never was, though it all belongs to you.
Nothing dear or precious enough for you to hold on to.
‘This is home,’ you tell yourself time and again inside your head,
‘This is where I grew up, where I laughed, where I bled.’
But you don’t feel at home; you feel forlorn, despite the familiar,
You feel like a stranger because the familiar feels so peculiar.
“This is not my home,” she said. “This is merely shelter that has kept me safe for decades. I have no home.”